


Undoing Fate

by sator_square



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sator_square/pseuds/sator_square
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft will do anything bring Sherlock back to life, even if that means rewriting history itself. However, preventing Jim from becoming his arch-enemy may prove to be more difficult than it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Undoing Fate 命运的逆转](https://archiveofourown.org/works/406857) by [melnakuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melnakuru/pseuds/melnakuru), [sator_square](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sator_square/pseuds/sator_square)



His brother was dead.  
  
If Mycroft had mentioned this fact to someone else, such a person would likely have looked at him askance. A braver soul might even have said something like: “Of course he's dead. He jumped off the roof of a building over a year ago.”  
  
It wasn't true, of course. His brother had left the building alive and well, the plan to fake his own suicide executed perfectly. He'd then run off to travel the world, taking down the remains of Moriarty's web all by himself. Mycroft had given him all the help he could without letting anyone in on the secret.  
  
It hadn't been enough.  
  
When Sherlock had taken down the first of Moriarty's lieutenants, the other two had been tipped off immediately. Sherlock was dead within the day.  
  
It had taken Mycroft a week to learn of his death; it had taken him only two minutes to realize he would never accept it. Nothing else in the world mattered anymore. He didn't care what he had to do or how he had to do it, he would get his brother back. If it meant altering reality itself, then so be it.  
  
With the resources he had available to him, he found a possible means of accomplishing his goal almost immediately: a time travel project created by the American military. It had been abandoned when the genius scientist in charge of the project had vanished into thin air along with the prototype.  
  
Fortunately, he'd left some perfectly good schematics behind. Mycroft only needed to work out how to use them.  
  
Mycroft threw himself into his new project with a dedication he'd never known before. He was intelligent enough that he'd never had to truly work hard at anything. Certainly, most people who met him got the impression of a diligent, hard-worker, but he was exactly as lazy as Sherlock had always claimed.  
  
Sherlock would be shocked to see him now.  
  
Within a month of his brother's death, Mycroft not only had a full understanding of the device, he'd made a few small improvements of his own. The original device worked, of course – in fact, Mycroft was certain that the scientist who'd invented it was off enjoying a branch universe out there somewhere – but it only allowed the user to travel back in time. With the modifications Mycroft had made, he'd be able to travel forward along the branch in time, to see the ultimate results of his interference.  
  
He knew this would likely result in the creation of several different branch universes just to accomplish this one goal, but that didn't especially bother him.  
  
Once he had the machine, he ran into a peculiar dilemma. Namely, figuring out the best way to use it.  
  
Mycroft's initial thought had simply been to go back to just before Sherlock's death and save his life, but he'd written off that plan immediately as being too simplistic. Sherlock's life would still be in danger, and what of the next attempt?  
  
His next thought was of going back to before Moriarty had allowed himself to become known to Sherlock. Mycroft could easily have him killed.  
  
However... he'd had his reasons for not doing it that way the first time around. Moriarty's network would still be a huge threat.  
  
Mycroft realized then that what he really needed to do was get rid of Moriarty before he even had a web to threaten Sherlock with. He went back through the files he had on Moriarty, looking for how far back he'd have to go to prevent any of it from coming into existence in the first place.  
  
Unfortunately, it seemed that the optimal time was Moriarty's ninth birthday, just before he'd killed Carl Powers.  
  
Whatever Moriarty might have done, Mycroft still found himself reluctant to kill a child. And given that he himself had been twenty at that time and not yet in any position to order a hit, he'd pretty much have to do it himself if he went that route.  
  
And so it was that Mycroft ended up choosing a different approach. Because, when he got right down to it, he didn't really need to kill Jim Moriarty. He only needed to kill any chance of Jim Moriarty growing into the sociopathic criminal mastermind he'd become originally.  
  
And there were plenty of ways he could manage that.


	2. A Murder Prevented

The time travel device was worn around the wrist, looking for all intents and purposes like a sleek, modern watch. Mycroft carried everything he thought he'd need in a pair of simple bags; all he needed now was a place to make the trip.  
  
It had to be somewhere Mycroft wouldn't be disturbed while disappearing in the present time or discovered appearing in the past. He eventually settled on the flat he'd kept in London during that period, knowing that he'd been called home to deal with Sherlock on the day in question. He would be able to avoid himself easily, and if anyone saw him leaving the flat, they would surely assume that he was a relative of some kind. The current residents – a group of students – had been more than willing to let him use the flat for an hour, given the price he'd been willing to pay for it.  
  
Mycroft set the device to two weeks before Carl Powers' death. He took a deep breath, mentally saying goodbye to the world as he knew it, then activated it.  
  
Mycroft heard a static whoosh as the world blurred around him, the time on the device ticking backward. He saw a ghostly version of himself split away from where he was standing, then walk backward out the door of the flat. The students reappeared in the flat, undoing every part of their morning routines. They unbrushed their teeth and unshowered, then changed back into pajamas. They filled empty bowls of cereal one bit at a time, removing whole bites from their mouths with their spoons. When they were finished, they unpoured the milk from the bowls back into the milk jug and the dry cereal back into boxes.  
  
Mycroft saw the scene speed up in front of him, going faster and faster until he could no longer even see people moving through the flat. Lights flashed on and off at random, furniture moved and changed several times.  
  
He breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized the flat as he knew it when he had lived there. The scene slowed down until he could periodically see a younger version of himself, who was completely oblivious to his presence.  
  
The sound of static disappeared, and the normal sharp edges of the world returned. Mycroft looked around the quiet flat, marveling at the fact that he had truly traveled more than twenty years into the past.  
  
It was one thing to know intellectually that time travel was possible, but actually _seeing_ it was something else entirely.  
  
He didn't spend much time standing around gaping, however. He had work to do.  
  
The first thing Mycroft did was set up a few basic preparations for the future. He'd brought limited cash with him, as it had been difficult to find intact notes from the right time period. To make up for it, he'd packed several pieces of extremely valuable jewelry to fund his efforts.  
  
It took him a week to sell the jewelry, set up a new identity with several bank accounts, and buy a small, inconspicuous building in which he could travel freely back and forth between any two time periods later than the current date in 1989. He'd arranged for a competent solicitor to handle legal and financial matters surrounding the property indefinitely, even if he happened to seemingly vanish off the face of the earth for a couple of decades.  
  
With that taken care of, Mycroft turned his attention to Jim Moriarty.  
  
He hadn't brought the file with him, but only because he'd already memorized it. Young Jim lived with his mother in his grandparents' house in Brighton. His mother was English; his father had been Irish. He had also been an alcoholic and a gambler. The family had lived in Ireland for the first eight years of Jim's life, until Jim's father had died in a pub fight. Jim's mother had moved back to Brighton and in with her parents, bringing her children with her.  
  
The death of Jim's father didn't seem to be much of a loss, either to him or the world in general. One of young Jim's teachers had attempted to report suspicions of physical abuse and neglect in the home, but the report hadn't gone anywhere. Mycroft knew from what he'd seen during Moriarty's interrogation that she'd been greatly underestimating the severity of the abuse taking place.  
  
The move might even have worked out well for them, if not for Carl Powers, who had taken to bullying Jim almost immediately. None of Jim's teachers or schoolmates had done anything to stop it. His mother hadn't even noticed.  
  
Mycroft made his way to the laboratory where he believed Jim had obtained the obscure poison he'd used to paralyze the bully. He wasn't absolutely certain about the location, or the date and time, but from the data he'd had access to in the future, they seemed the most probable of the options available. If he turned out to be wrong, he still had a week to confront Jim elsewhere.  
  
If he turned out to be right, however, he would make an impossibly memorable impression on the boy. Mycroft never could resist making a memorable first impression.  
  
Mycroft quietly broke through the laboratory security system without any problems. The system was painfully insecure by his standards; in fact, it was fairly insecure even by the standards of a basic house alarm twenty years in the future. He wore an ordinary three-piece suit; he was more than confident in his ability to talk his way out of any trouble, should he happen to be caught.  
  
Mycroft sat down in a chair across from the cabinet with the poison. He folded his hands and waited, completely unmoving, in the dark.  
  
The room remained completely quiet for nearly half an hour, before the silence was broken by the sound of a door opening, followed by child-sized feet padding into the room.  
  
Mycroft remained perfectly still.  
  
A torch clicked on, the beam of light directed at the labels on the cabinets along the wall. It stopped on the cabinet with the exotic poisons. Jim walked over to it.  
  
He was just about to open it when Mycroft cleared his throat. “Jim.”  
  
Jim spun around, wide-eyed, shining the light right in Mycroft's face.  
  
Mycroft closed his eyes as though he were considering something very important. In reality, he simply thought it was better to allow his eyes to adjust to the light half-lidded than to have them blink repeatedly and ruin the image he wanted to present. As long as he could sense the light through his lids, he could be confident Jim hadn't run away.  
  
And really, even if he did run away, Mycroft knew exactly where he lived.  
  
When he opened his eyes a few moments later, Jim was still gaping at him. His expression of genuine surprise was completely different from the fake expression of surprise he regularly put on in the future. It gave Mycroft a bit of hope for him.  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Jim Moriarty, yes?”  
  
“Y-ye... how do you know my name?” Jim asked, voice high-pitched, even for a child. His eyes were still unbelievably wide. “Who are you?”  
  
“Who I am is not important. This is about who you are. Or shall I say... who you wish to be.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Jim asked.  
  
“You came here to steal a very specific type of poison, did you not?” Mycroft answered. Without waiting for Jim to reply, he continued: “You intend to poison Carl Powers before he swims next week, drowning him without leaving behind any signs of foul play.” Mycroft sighed. “Other than his inexplicably missing shoes, of course. What _is_ it about the shoes that makes them worth endangering such an otherwise undetectable plan?”  
  
“He kicked me,” Jim replied, hand on the torch shaking, just a little. “He kicked me to the ground and stepped on my face. And then he _laughed_ at me.”  
  
Mycroft nodded, as though he'd been fully aware of this the whole time. He watched Jim expectantly.  
  
Jim swallowed. “How did you... how did you know what I'm... what I was going to do?” he asked, looking at Mycroft with something like awe.  
  
“It was a simple deduction,” Mycroft lied. “Now, you're very intelligent, so I'm sure you've realized by now that you can't use that particular plan anymore. Or any other plan, for that matter. If Carl Powers dies under any sort of suspicious circumstances, it will be obvious who is responsible.”  
  
Jim laughed. There was an edge of madness to the sound, though it wasn't nearly as severe as it would be in the future. “So, that's what this is about? You wanted to stop me from killing Carl?” Jim asked, in a tone suggesting Mycroft wanted him to eat garbage. “What's so special about him?”  
  
“There's absolutely nothing special about him,” Mycroft replied. “This is about _you_. ”  
  
“ _Me?_ ” Jim repeated.  
  
“Yes, Jim,” Mycroft replied patiently. “ _You._ I'm here to help you.”  
  
Jim stared at him as though he'd just announced he'd come from another planet.  
  
“Now, how might we solve this Carl Powers problem?”  
  
Jim threw up his hands. “I don't know!” he said. “You won't let me kill him.”  
  
“I'm sure there are plenty of solutions that wouldn't require you to kill him,” Mycroft replied. “Have you considered changing schools?”  
  
“Mum won't let me,” Jim said. “She says it's too expensive to send me anywhere else.”  
  
“You're a bright boy. There are ways.” Mycroft paused. “I could arrange for you to attend a different school, if you wish.”  
  
“I... do,” Jim replied slowly. “But Mum still won't...”  
  
“I'll handle your mother, when it comes to it,” Mycroft replied. He stood, looking down at Jim from above. “I think it's time you were getting home now, don't you?” He gave Jim a small pat on the back, then guided him out of the lab.  
  
Mycroft hailed a cab, then rode home with the boy, depositing him just outside the run-down house his family lived in. “I'll be back tomorrow afternoon.”  
  
“O...kay,” Jim replied, tone indicating that he'd believe it when he saw it.  
  
Mycroft wasn't about to disappoint him.  
  
The next morning, Mycroft went directly to the head of a respectable, but not overly prestigious school and had Jim enrolled for the upcoming year.  
  
He was met with some resistance, initially. The man had a number of objections, including 'I know nothing about this boy', 'He'd be starting two years earlier than we normally allow', and 'You have no apparent relationship with this boy that would allow you to enroll him in a school'.  
  
Mycroft countered the objections one by one, eventually handing the man an envelope full of cash. “Jim more than qualifies for financial assistance, but I'd like to pay his fees right now, if possible. There's no need for a receipt. I'm sure you know what to do with it.”  
  
By the time he left, Jim was guaranteed a spot the upcoming year, as long as his actual guardian signed the necessary papers.  
  
Afterward, Mycroft took the time to make a few phone calls, then went directly to Jim's house.  
  
Jim's mother was home, fortunately. Less fortunately, she was also drunk. It took considerable time and patience for Mycroft to even get through the basics of what he was proposing. He claimed that he worked for the school in question, and that one of Jim's teachers at his current school had tipped them off to his potential.  
  
He also claimed that it was traditional for students to have a tutor the year before they started, instead of going to a day school, and that such a tutor would be provided for Jim. It wasn't remotely true, other than the part about Mycroft being able to provide a tutor for the next several months, but he needed an excuse to get Jim out of his current school immediately.  
  
No, she didn't have to pay anything. No, she wouldn't have to do anything, either, beyond sign these forms.  
  
Surprisingly, she took his offer at face value, once she understood what it was. She sighed the forms without reading them, not even bothering to consult Jim about the situation.  
  
It could have been because she'd seen him spying on their conversation from the top of the stairs, but Mycroft wasn't willing to give her that much credit.  
  
When they were finished, Mycroft asked: “Would you mind if I had a word with Jim?”  
  
“Go ahead.” She hiccuped, then waved in the general direction of the stairs, apparently not especially concerned at the thought of having a strange man alone with her son in his bedroom.  
  
Jim had disappeared by the time Mycroft reached the top of the stairs. Mycroft knocked on the door of the room that had to be his. “Jim.”  
  
Jim opened the door. His expression was wary, cautious. Mycroft looked past him, taking in a bedroom that could have been his brother's at that age, if his brother had been forced to scrimp and save and steal to acquire the things he was interested in. There was plenty of lab equipment, but nothing like the chemistry set Mycroft had bought for Sherlock; no, the lab equipment here had been collected bit by bit, each item acquired individually.  
  
A good amount of it matched what was used by the lab they'd met in the night before.  
  
The room was also considerably neater than Sherlock's had been, and the equipment considerably better cared for. Sherlock had always known Mycroft would replace anything he destroyed, but Jim had no such luxury.  
  
“Are you going to let me in?” Mycroft asked.  
  
Jim opened the door a little wider, then took a step back, watching him silently.  
  
Mycroft made his way over to Jim's desk and sat down. It was a full-sized desk made for an adult, not a child. The chair was similarly sized, though it didn't match the desk. There was a thick, heavy cushion on the seat, presumably to make it high enough for Jim to use the desk properly.  
  
Jim made no move to sit anywhere.  
  
“You don't have to go back to school. Your new tutor will be here tomorrow.” Mycroft set a brochure down on the desk. “You'll start at your new school next term.”  
  
Jim looked... out of his element. “What if... what if the new school is just as bad as my old one?” he asked. “What if there's another boy like Carl? What am I supposed to do then?”  
  
“Make an effort not to stand out, if possible,” Mycroft replied. “Every boy in your year will just be starting, so you won't have the problem of being the only new student. Don't mention that you're younger than the others, and if it comes up, don't brag about it.”  
  
“They might all hate me anyway,” Jim said, lightly kicking his toe against the floor. “And I'll probably hate them. People are _stupid_.”  
  
“Yes, and they'll continue to be stupid whatever you might do,” Mycroft agreed. “However, you have a certain amount of control over whether or not they hate you. Make a good first impression. Be friendly, but not desperate for friends. Learn the other boys' secrets, and make sure they know that you know them.”  
  
Jim laughed. “So, I should blackmail everyone?”  
  
“Quite the opposite,” Mycroft replied. “Know their secrets, but never say or threaten to say anything about them in public... they'll come to trust you, perhaps even consider you a confidante.”  
  
Jim nodded, and Mycroft could see the gears turning in his head.  
  
Mycroft went on to explain the basics of social navigation, as he had always seen them. It was the sort of conversation he'd attempted to have with Sherlock hundreds of times over the years, only this time with an audience eager to hear what he had to say.  
  
He also gave Jim a bit of instruction in the area of deduction, since it would be useful in dealing with his classmates.  
  
“Is that what you do?” Jim asked him afterward. “Deduce things, like a detective? That's how you knew what I was going to do to Carl?”  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft lied.  
  
“Wow,” Jim replied. He looked at Mycroft like he was the most amazing person he'd ever met in his entire life.  
  
“Do you have any more questions before I go?” Mycroft asked.  
  
Jim bit his lip. “Are... are you coming back?”  
  
“I can't say for certain,” Mycroft replied carefully. Better to be honest than to build up the boy's hopes and potentially anger him when they didn't pan out. “I may never be able to.”  
  
Jim looked upset and somewhat confused, as though he didn't even fully understand what he was feeling or why. His eyes scrunched up, and he rubbed his chest. “Oh,” he said quietly.  
  
Mycroft stood up, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. “You're strong enough to get on without me,” he said. “I'm sure you'll do well.”  
  
Jim nodded silently.  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
Jim opened his mouth, then closed it. He swallowed, then blurted out: “Are you my real father?”  
  
Mycroft couldn't hide his surprise at that one. “What?”  
  
Jim looked away. “Dad always said I wasn't his. He said Mum was always fucking other men.”  
  
“I wouldn't know about that,” Mycroft replied, “but I think you can safely ignore anything your father might have said to you.”  
  
“If you're not my father, then why are you doing this?” Jim asked, sounding almost angry. “Why are you helping me?”  
  
“Because I think you could have a good future, if you don't make the mistake you were close to making.”  
  
Jim looked nervous. “Killing someone, you mean?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Jim stared at Mycroft's tie, his face flitting between a thousand different expressions. “What if I've... already killed someone?” His eyes darted up to Mycroft's face for an instant, then sunk back down.  
  
Mycroft's mind whirled. If Jim had killed someone already, it certainly hadn't been in the file. “Someone?”  
  
“...Dad.”  
  
If Jim were an ordinary child, Mycroft could safely assume that he was exaggerating, feeling personal responsibility for the death in the way that children often did.  
  
However, Jim was not an ordinary child; Jim was Jim, the child who was ready to kill a schoolmate using an elaborate, yet undetectable murder scheme. Mycroft thought back over what he knew about Jim's father's death.  
  
The file had said he'd been killed in a pub fight... over a woman. The man who'd killed Jim's father had smelled his girlfriend's perfume on him. Well-known for his violent temper, he'd attacked Jim's father immediately, killing him in the ensuing brawl.  
  
“The perfume,” Mycroft said, after he'd deduced it. “You bought your mother the same brand of perfume, knowing that it would end up on him as well, and that it would still be there when he arrived at the pub.”  
  
Jim was frozen where he stood.  
  
Mycroft knew he had to say something, though he was at a loss as to what. “That doesn't count,” he said, knowing it probably wasn't the best answer he could be giving.  
  
Jim's head shot up. “Why not?”  
  
Mycroft tried to think. Whatever answer he gave could shape the boy's path for the rest of his life. Certainly, Mycroft could choose to go back and prevent Jim from killing the man in the first place, but he couldn't imagine that living with an abusive father for an even longer period of time would have an especially positive effect on the boy. It made more sense to work with what he had right now.  
  
He thought of saying 'because you didn't kill him personally', but that would merely endorse hiring hitmen to take out one's enemies. It was a perfectly legitimate practice, but not one he wanted to encourage here.  
  
'Because your father deserved what he got' was equally true, but equally unhelpful.  
  
“Because he was abusing you and you truly had no better way of stopping him at the time,” Mycroft replied eventually. “Now you have plenty of other options for dealing with your problems. Do you understand?”  
  
“I think so,” Jim replied slowly.  
  
“Good.”  
  
After a short but encouraging goodbye, Mycroft made his way back to the building he'd purchased. He considered getting a good night's sleep before making the trip back to the future, but was too impatient to go through with it. He wanted to know what had become of his brother.  
  
He set the device to 2012, then activated it, watching the world blur around him. It was notably less exciting in a completely empty building.  
  
When he arrived in 2012, he immediately pulled out his mobile and scanned for wireless internet. He found a connection almost immediately. Thankfully, what he'd done in the past didn't seem to have affected technological standards in any significant way. It would have been extremely inconvenient, otherwise.  
  
Mycroft would have liked to have his usual resources available to him, but he couldn't even be certain that he'd gone into the same line of work in this timeline. It was likely, but it was also equally possible that he'd ended up in a different department, working under a different set of bosses. Even if he had the same job, he had no reason to believe that his passwords would happen to be the same as they had been in the old timeline.  
  
Not to mention the fact that the version of him that had grown up in this timeline would be around to notice someone attempting to access his files. Mycroft had no intention of antagonizing his other self. There was no way it could end well.  
  
So, he settled for a simple internet search on his brother's name.  
  
The results were not what he had hoped for.  
  
'Consulting Detective, Criminal Mastermind Killed in Lab Explosion.'  
  
The article was dated 2009.  
  
For a moment, Mycroft thought that his intervention had barely changed anything at all, and what it had changed had been slightly for the worse. Instead of Moriarty _nearly_ killing Sherlock in a pool in 2009, he'd _successfully_ killed him in a lab in 2009.  
  
When he read the article, however, he learned that things were a great deal worse than he'd thought. In this timeline, Sherlock Holmes, master criminal, had caused the explosion that killed both him and Jim Moriarty, consulting detective.  
  
Mycroft felt a headache coming on.


	3. A Future Inverted

Mycroft read through the rest of the article, trying to figure out where his plan had gone awry.  
  
The lab that had exploded was the same lab that Mycroft had met Jim in, which seemed important, but also a bit strange. The place was significant to Jim, not to Sherlock.  
  
Mycroft wondered for a moment if the article might be incorrect. Perhaps the whole consulting detective and criminal mastermind bits had been set up by Moriarty somehow. It wouldn't be the first time Moriarty had manipulated the press into doing his bidding.  
  
However, when Mycroft did another search on Jim Moriarty, he found an abundance of evidence to contradict the theory. All the cases, the media attention that Sherlock Holmes had in the original timeline, Jim Moriarty had here. There was even a picture of him with Lestrade.  
  
There was little corresponding information about Sherlock, beyond what was written about the explosion, but he seemed to have become a thief of some kind. The article attributed several large thefts to him, though with little explanation as to why he was even suspected. The exact reason why Sherlock had become such a thief was not adequately explained in the article.  
  
Mycroft thought over the change he'd made, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Why hadn't his brother become a detective?  
  
And then it hit him. He'd taken Carl Powers out of the equation. The Carl Powers murder had been Sherlock's inspiration, the thing that had set him on the path to detective work. His brother hadn't been simply destined to be a detective – it had been a whim, a sudden irritation at a stupid article he'd seen in the paper that had sparked his interest in outdoing the police. Without that case to catch his attention at that particular moment, his focus could have gone absolutely anywhere.  
  
Mycroft already had a half-formed idea of what he needed to do to fix the new problem he'd created, but there was one element to the story that still bothered him. Namely, the fact that Sherlock had gone out of his way to kill Jim. There didn't seem to be any obvious reason for him to have done it.  
  
The explanation given in the article – that Sherlock had been angry at having his plans continually thwarted – didn't sound plausible to Mycroft. Knowing his brother as he did, Mycroft had already concluded that Sherlock's career in thievery had arisen out of boredom, not any actual desire to acquire valuable items. Having someone capable of thwarting his plans would only add to the challenge.  
  
No, whatever it was, it had to be something personal, and Mycroft couldn't go back until he knew what it was.  
  
There were many lines of investigation Mycroft could have taken, but he started by going to the lab. It had been nearly three years since the explosion, so he knew there probably wouldn't be much by way of usable information, but he needed to see where his brother had died.  
  
The building had been completely rebuilt, unsurprisingly. He stood in front of it for a few minutes, then turned to leave...  
  
...only to have a pair of men grab him and unceremoniously shove him into the back of a black car.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Mycroft remained silent during the car ride. He didn't yet know whether he was being taken by his alternate self or someone who had mistaken him for his alternate self, and there was no point in talking until he found out.  
  
He was taken to an abandoned warehouse. He was forced to wait there for a little over an hour before a woman walked in. He remembered her vaguely; she'd been his assistant for a while.  
  
“Sir,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “No... not sir. You aren't my boss anymore.”  
  
Mycroft said nothing, though he had to wonder what precisely had happened to his other self. Had the incident with Sherlock been enough to lose him his job? Had he found the American project and jaunted off to another universe to save Sherlock?  
  
“Where have you _been_ for the past two years?”  
  
“Has it really been that long?” Mycroft asked.  
  
She gave him a look.  
  
“How did you find me?”  
  
“I had the lab staked out,” she replied. “In case you ever came back. You don't have to worry; no one else knows you're here.”  
  
“What do you intend to do with me?”  
  
“Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” she replied. “Given where you popped back up...”  
  
Mycroft thought over what she'd said. It seemed they were closer in this timeline. He might be able to turn this to his advantage. “Do you still have any of the files on my brother?”  
  
“I still have all of it, even your personal ones,” she replied. “I brought it all with me.”  
  
After surprisingly little convincing, she brought him back to the building he owned, leaving several boxes behind with him. “I hope you're able to find what you need.”  
  
He was. The boxes contained a wealth of information on both Sherlock and Jim, much of which he would never have been able to acquire through ordinary sources. His other self had been just as concerned about Sherlock as he was.  
  
Every single one of Sherlock's exploits was there, ordered by date. Sherlock's first major theft had been in 1991, two years after Carl Powers hadn't been murdered. There had been a newspaper article about a new museum exhibit containing a rare, prehistoric insect, preserved in amber. The article had gone on and on about the new 'unbreakable' security being put in place to protect it. In fact, it had given away so much that Mycroft already knew exactly how Sherlock must have stolen it, even before he reached the second article detailing the actual theft.  
  
The item had been mysteriously returned a week after it was taken. Mycroft had to imagine it was his other self's doing.  
  
That certainly seemed to be the theme running through the thefts, over the years. Mycroft could see the way Sherlock had actively taunted him with his crimes, as well as the way the other Mycroft had cleaned up after him, minimizing the damage, hiding the culprit as best as he could. He had continued to do this as Sherlock moved from stealing valuable antiques to scientific research to important government secrets.  
  
There had been a tenuous equilibrium to the situation until Jim Moriarty, consulting detective, had upset the balance. He'd noticed a pattern in several of Sherlock's crimes, linking them together in a way that no one else ever had. He went around insisting that there was a single criminal mastermind behind any number of high profile events.  
  
Surprisingly, this had occurred a good two years before the explosion.  
  
Other Mycroft had taken an interest in him immediately, putting together a basic file on his history. Mycroft was pleased to see the effects of his interference – or rather, the interference of Jim's 'anonymous childhood benefactor' – had been basically positive up until that point.  
  
Other Mycroft had then arranged for Jim to be picked up in a black car. Fortunately, he'd had the whole thing recorded.  
  
The meeting had not quite gone the way the other Mycroft had been expecting.  
  
Mycroft watched video-Jim step out of the car, carelessly shoving one of the guards out of the way in the process. “Yes, yes, you're all very intimidating, but I'm here to meet your boss. Whoever he is.”  
  
Other Mycroft stood nearby, affecting an intimidating pose. “Mr. Moriarty,” he said.  
  
Jim froze the moment he heard the voice. Mycroft groaned as he watched his other self completely misinterpret the response, assuming that Jim was truly frightened of him.  
  
“I see you're beginning to understand the full weight of the situation you're in.”  
  
Jim's head snapped up. His eyes were wide for a moment, and then he laughed. And laughed. And laughed.  
  
Other Mycroft was visibly taken aback. “Mr. Moriarty--”  
  
“It's you,” he whispered. “It's really you! I thought I'd never see you again!” Jim ran over to Other Mycroft, patting him on the shoulders and chest as though to make sure he really existed. He looked up at Other Mycroft's face almost worshipfully for a long moment, then stepped back, sighing. “No, you aren't him, are you? He was a bit thinner than you are and a few years older... not to mention the fact that this was twenty years ago...”  
  
Other Mycroft just stared at him, clearly baffled.  
  
“And you obviously have no idea what I'm talking about, but that's okay. Maybe he was a relative of yours,” Jim went on, looking thoughtful for a moment. He then shook his head, giving Other Mycroft a huge grin. “It doesn't matter. This is great!” He threw his arms around Other Mycroft, giving him what was undoubtedly the biggest hug he'd had in his entire life.  
  
Other Mycroft allowed it, seemingly at a complete loss for what to do. Hugging wasn't exactly a common response to one of his kidnappings. After a few seconds, he patted Jim's head vaguely, obviously trying to adapt to the situation and roll with it. “Just who are you talking about, Mr. Moriarty?”  
  
Jim pulled back. “Jim. You can call me Jim. And I don't know.” Jim laughed. “I don't know his name. I've been looking for him for nearly twenty years, but I haven't found _anything_ about him. He showed up, enrolled me in school, and then he just-- _poof!_ ” Jim mimicked an explosion with his hands. “Vanished right off the face of the Earth.”  
  
Other Mycroft went slightly pale. “You're referring to your anonymous benefactor?” he asked. At Jim's nod, he continued: “And... he looked just like me, twenty years ago...”  
  
Mycroft could see the deductions occurring in his other self's head, and Mycroft knew exactly what conclusion he would reach, whether he would speak it aloud or not. Discounting time travel, as any rational man would, there was a far more plausible explanation for the man's identity. Mycroft always _had_ looked just like his father, far more so than Sherlock.  
  
And once he'd deduced that the man was his father, the rest of the story became obvious. There was only one reason for a wealthy man, particularly one like his father, to anonymously come to the aid of _one_ specific boy.  
  
Other Mycroft circled Jim, looking him up and down. He stopped in front of him, inspecting his face. “Do you resemble your mother more than your father?”  
  
“Yes,” Jim replied. “Now, I know what you're thinking, but Shadow Man said he _wasn't_ my real father.”  
  
“People say a great many things, don't they?” Other Mycroft replied. He stared at a point in the distance, sounding weary.  
  
“If you had no idea he came to me, why did you bring me here?” Jim asked.  
  
Other Mycroft snapped out of his daze. It took him a moment to recover and come up with something not related to Sherlock. “I've heard about your impressive deductive abilities. I was hoping you might be willing to take on a few cases for me, on a discreet basis.”  
  
“Work for _you_?” Jim looked positively ecstatic. “Of course!”  
  
“Good.” Other Mycroft sounded slightly off, still visibly uncertain about how to handle someone who was _enthusiastically_ willing to cooperate.  
  
The video ended soon afterward.  
  
From there, it didn't take much for Mycroft to figure out how things had gone, in particular how they had gone _wrong_.  
  
Jim had continued to take the cases Other Mycroft had given him, with Other Mycroft making a point to keep him as far away from Sherlock as he possibly could. The two had grown fairly close – so close that it had been inevitable that Sherlock would find out.  
  
Mycroft's hands shook as he looked through the items in the final box. It consisted almost entirely of taunting notes from Sherlock, running back over a decade. They were more hostile than anything his Sherlock would have written, but the first batch were more attention-seeking than threatening.  
  
They'd changed after Jim came into the picture, however. Mycroft found a photo of Other Mycroft with Jim in a cafe, both men smiling. There was a note scribbled on the back in Sherlock's handwriting: _'Is he the brother you always wanted?'_  
  
There were other photos, other notes. One had Jim's face burned through by a cigarette. _'You can't replace me, Mycroft'_ was written on the back, scribbled violently enough to tear holes.  
  
The final note was barely legible, yet perfectly clear. _'You will lose us both.'_  
  
Mycroft rubbed his face.  
  
Two things were obvious to him now. First, he needed to ensure that Sherlock still became a detective, not a criminal, regardless of what Jim did. Second, he needed to do something to dissuade Jim from looking for him or associating with his other self should they happen to meet again.  
  
Sherlock had committed his first crime in 1991. Mycroft set the device to two weeks before the crime would occur, then activated it, watching the future whirl away in front of him.


	4. A Theft Committed

Mycroft's plan for turning his brother from criminal to detective was a simple one. He knew Sherlock would see the article about the exhibit in a week's time, and that he would commit the theft roughly a week later. There was one obvious way of ensuring both that Sherlock never stole the item and that he had something interesting to occupy his mind:  
  
Namely, Mycroft would simply steal it himself.  
  
He would let the first article run, of course, in order to catch Sherlock's attention. However, he would then steal the preserved insect the next day, six days before Sherlock was fated to do so. The theft would hit the papers, where Sherlock would read about it and hopefully take some kind of interest in solving the case.  
  
A normal theft might not be enough to catch Sherlock's attention, but Mycroft had no intention of making this an ordinary museum theft. This theft would be strange, inexplicable. This theft would be a _puzzle_.  
  
The whole thing would involve a great deal of legwork, but hopefully it would pay off.  
  
Mycroft had roughly a week to prepare everything he needed for the theft. Since he already had a thorough knowledge of the main weakness in the museum's security system, he knew it wouldn't be especially difficult. He'd have plenty of time to visit Jim and hopefully persuade the boy not to look for him in the future.  
  
He checked into a hotel, intending to use his first day back to rest up and have his clothes cleaned. He didn't expect anything of importance to happen that day.  
  
He certainly didn't expect to find 11-year-old Jim sitting in his room when he got out of the shower. It made him very glad that he'd left his mobile back at the building, because the boy had almost certainly gone through his things.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I found you,” Jim said excitedly, bouncing on the edge of bed. He was dressed in his school uniform despite the fact that it was the middle of summer. “I really _found_ you!”  
  
“How exactly did you find me?” Mycroft asked. He walked over to the clothes he'd laid out on the bed, slipping his trousers on under his dressing gown.  
  
“I've been looking for you,” Jim replied. “Since a week after you disappeared. I was so stupid. I didn't even bother to ask for your _name_.”  
  
“I wouldn't have given it to you,” Mycroft replied, quickly putting on the rest of his clothing.  
  
“It was still stupid not to ask,” Jim replied. He paused. “The name you checked in under isn't your real name, is it?”  
  
“No,” Mycroft replied. “How did you manage to find me?” he asked, genuinely curious.  
  
“I thought you might come back, so I paid people at a few hotels to keep a look out for you.”  
  
“You don't have a photo of me,” Mycroft replied. He walked to the door, gesturing for Jim to follow.  
  
“I gave them a detailed description of you and asked them to call me if anyone like that came in,” Jim replied, following Mycroft out the door. “Where are we going?”  
  
“It's time for dinner,” Mycroft replied, leading him to the elevator. “You must have had quite a number of false positives, giving them only a description to go by.”  
  
Jim shrugged. “It worked eventually, didn't it?”  
  
When they got to the restaurant, Mycroft asked for a table for two. The hostess recognized Jim immediately. She smiled at both of them, asking: “Is this your mystery man?”  
  
Jim gave her a winning smile. “It's him. Thank you, you were all so helpful.”  
  
“Oh, anything for you, dear,” the woman said. She gave them a nice, quiet table next to a window.  
  
“You said you paid these people,” Mycroft commented after they'd ordered. “Where did you get the money?”  
  
“Detective work,” Jim said proudly. “You wouldn't _believe_ the stupid problems the boys at my school have. Or how much money they're willing to pay me to solve them.”  
  
“Oh, I would certainly believe it,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Is that what you did when you were in school?” Jim asked eagerly.  
  
“On occasion,” Mycroft answered. “It wasn't really my area.”  
  
“What _was_ your area?” Jim asked, voice brimming over with frustration and excitement. “Where did you grow up? What did you do? Where have you been for the last two years? What's your real name? Who _are_ you?” The questions popped out Jim's mouth in a frantic, continuous stream, not giving Mycroft time to answer even if he'd wanted to. He struggled to catch his breath when he was finished.  
  
“Who I am is unimportant,” Mycroft replied mildly.  
  
“It is _not_ ,” Jim replied, nearly sulking now. He paused, tapping his fork against the table in almost a stabbing motion. “Did you come back to see me, or...?” He trailed off, sounding anxious.  
  
“It's one of the reasons I came back,” Mycroft answered. “I have another matter to attend to, but I would like to hear more about how you've been getting on. Do you like your new school?”  
  
Jim's face lit up. “It's _great_. Much better than my old school. I did what you said and everyone likes me.” He giggled. “They think I'm _decent_.”  
  
“That's a good position to be in,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Dinner arrived. Jim chattered on about his life at school, telling Mycroft all about his classes (“too easy”), his teachers (“clueless”), the boys in his year (“stupid, but useful”), the boys in the years above him (“stupid, but they have more money”), the facilities (“a real chemistry lab!”), and finally, a bit more about his detective work (“fun, even when it's kind of easy”).  
  
Mycroft knew some of the bare facts from Jim's file in the future, but the personal commentary was new. At one point, Mycroft accidentally let slip that he knew what Jim's marks were before Jim had actually told him, but the boy only took it as proof that Mycroft really had been paying attention during the two years he'd been gone.  
  
“Are you a spy?” Jim whispered.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“You know – a spy, for some top secret government agency,” Jim replied. “It's the only thing that fits. You won't tell me anything about yourself, but you have all kinds of information from your _secret spy network_.”  
  
Mycroft couldn't hold back a smile. The theory was strangely accurate, in a way, despite being completely off the mark on so many levels. And Mycroft knew an opportunity when he saw one. “If I _were_ a spy, I could hardly go around announcing it to the world, now could I?”  
  
“I knew it! You _are_ a spy!” Jim exclaimed.  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
  
Jim hurriedly covered his mouth, glancing all around them. “Sorry,” he said.  
  
“I don't think anyone heard you,” Mycroft replied, dabbing his napkin against his mouth. “But on a related note, I would prefer it if you didn't attempt to investigate me after I leave. It might cause me some... unpleasantness.”  
  
Jim opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again, frowning. “Okay, I won't try to investigate you after you leave,” he said, sounding unhappy. “How long are you staying?” he asked, hands bunching up in the tablecloth.  
  
Mycroft smoothed his hands out, then gave each of them a gentle pat. “A couple of weeks, though I'm afraid I won't be here the whole time.”  
  
“Will you say goodbye before you go?” Jim asked.  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft replied. It wasn't as though he lacked the time. “Now, it's time we got you home.”  
  
“Can't I stay here with you?”  
  
“That wouldn't be appropriate.”  
  
Jim scoffed. “Who cares what's _appropriate_?”  
  
“The police, for one,” Mycroft replied. With another child, he would likely have added 'your family', but he had no reason to believe it to be true in this case.  
  
After considerable argument, Mycroft herded Jim into a cab and took him home. He then returned to the hotel and had his first sleep in over 24 hours.  
  
Jim was there when he awoke, sitting in the chair near the bed. “Good morning,” the boy said cheerfully.  
  
“I took you home,” Mycroft said.  
  
“I came back,” Jim replied. “Don't worry, I spent the night at home. It was all very _appropriate_.”  
  
Mycroft took his clothes to the bathroom, emerging fully dressed.  
  
Jim hadn't moved at all in that time.  
  
Mycroft was strangely reminded of his brother at a young age, when Sherlock had simply refused to leave his side for more than a few minutes at a time. Mycroft took Jim down to breakfast with him, hoping Jim wouldn't be quite so difficult to get away from when the time came.  
  
“I have a few matters to attend to today,” Mycroft told him. “I won't be able to spend much time with you.”  
  
“That's okay,” Jim replied easily. A little too easily, in fact.  
  
Sure enough, when the time came for Mycroft to go purchase the equipment he needed, he immediately noticed he was being tailed. Jim was better at it than most 11-year-olds would be – or even most adults, for that matter – but he wasn't completely unnoticeable.  
  
Mycroft ducked into a large shop, making it look like it had been his intended destination the entire time. He walked right through to the other exit, then quickly turned a corner and hailed a cab. He didn't see Jim anywhere – the boy was likely still watching the door he'd entered through, as Mycroft had intended.  
  
Mycroft was able to get all of the tools he would need in fairly short order. By the end of the day, he was equipped with a sturdy pair of gloves, a mess of ropes and pulleys, some handheld power tools, a pair of wire cutters, several cans of spray paint, and a number of other miscellaneous items. The sleeping pills had been the most taxing item, requiring him to fake a prescription to obtain them.  
  
It was annoying, having to carry around so much stuff, especially when all he strictly needed to pull off the theft were the pills, the gloves, and the wire cutters. A theft like that wouldn't be very attention grabbing, however.  
  
He brought the items back to the building he owned, knowing Jim would only start rifling through them and making deductions if he brought them back to the hotel. It wouldn't do for Jim to find out what he was up to.  
  
He then returned to the hotel, completely unsurprised to find Jim waiting in his room for him.  
  
“You knew I was following you, didn't you?” Jim asked. He sounded impressed, if slightly frustrated.  
  
“I thought we agreed you wouldn't investigate me,” Mycroft commented.  
  
“I agreed not to investigate you _after you leave_ ,” Jim replied.  
  
“Of course.” Mycroft realized he really should have known better – Sherlock would never have allowed him to get away with that sort of careless phrasing either.  
  
Having already acquired everything he needed to pull off his plan, Mycroft spent the next few days doing inconsequential things with Jim. The boy took him to his favorite places, showed him where he'd solved a few of his cases, and generally enjoyed being the complete center of his attention.  
  
Jim wasn't happy when Mycroft said he'd be away for the next two days, especially since he wouldn't say where he was going. It would have been easier to simply go without telling Jim anything, but the boy already seemed paranoid about him possibly leaving without saying goodbye, so Mycroft decided against it.  
  
It had taken some time, but eventually, he'd been able to convince Jim that he really would be back in two days time, and Jim had finally agreed not to follow him from the hotel when he left. He took Jim home for the evening, then prepared his things to leave the following morning.  
  
He was relieved not to see Jim in his room when he awoke. The boy wasn't waiting for him in the lobby, either, and Mycroft didn't see him at any point on the way to the train station.  
  
Mycroft bought a newspaper to read on the train. He was pleased to see the article about the exhibit in the paper; Sherlock had probably already read it.  
  
When he reached London, Mycroft immediately checked in to a hotel. He needed somewhere to leave his equipment until the break-in, and he would also need somewhere to return to afterward.  
  
Once he had that settled, Mycroft took a trip to the museum. Most of what he needed to do would be done that night, but there was one small thing he needed to do during the day to ensure his plan would work.  
  
The museum security room had two doors. One door connected to the interior of the museum, the other led directly out into the courtyard. Mycroft carefully instigated a fight between two teenage boys in one of the exhibits, then made his way to the security office to report it. He quietly caught the door just before it closed, waiting for the guard to turn the corner before actually entering the office. Once he was inside, it was easy enough to tamper with the lock on the door to the courtyard, ensuring that it wouldn't lock properly, even if it appeared to be locked from the inside.  
  
He left through that door, doing a quick test to make sure he'd rigged the lock correctly. Satisfied with his work, he returned to the hotel to wait for nightfall.  
  
The 'theft' went off smoothly. Knowing the night guard's schedule, Mycroft waited until he was out of the security room on rounds, then slipped inside and spiked his coffee with sleeping pills. He slipped out again, waited half an hour, then walked right back inside. He turned off the security cameras and wiped the tapes.  
  
After that, he went to the maintenance room and cut the power to the building, eliminating every single obstacle between him and the insect. If the security guard had been awake, he would have noticed immediately, but he wasn't.  
  
Security systems often had the most _ridiculous_ design flaws.  
  
Mycroft supposed he should be grateful. His task wouldn't have been nearly as easy even ten years later.  
  
Mycroft took the insect from its display case. He could have simply pocketed the thing and been done with it, but he knew that wouldn't be enough to catch Sherlock's interest. So, instead, he cut a panel off of the base of the display case, set the insect inside, then resealed it, taking care to ensure it looked exactly as it had before he'd cut it open.  
  
Afterwards, he got to work on the most important part of the plan: confusing the scene of the crime. Mycroft set up a series of pulleys running all across the room, reaching several windows, a balcony, and the sky light at various points. He cut holes in random areas of the room, including two holes in the glass portion of the display case. He spray-painted the cameras. He made bizarre adjustments to the wiring of the security system. He switched the position of several other exhibits. He 'left behind' several mysterious electronic contraptions that might have plausibly been used to disable the new security measures.  
  
Then he wrote several coded messages on the floor using the spray paint. Most of them were gibberish; a couple amounted to 'you are all too stupid to solve this'; the final one announced the exact location of the insect, in the base of the display case. He paid careful attention to the position of that particular message.  
  
Finally, Mycroft returned to the maintenance room and reactivated the electricity. The security system rebooted as normal – barring the modifications he'd made. He walked back to the security room, where the guard was still passed out in his chair. He undid his earlier tampering with the lock, then walked right out the door...  
  
...and right into Jim.  
  
Mycroft was too shocked to do more than stare for the first several seconds. Jim stared right back at him, wide-eyed.  
  
Mycroft came to his senses first, grabbing Jim by the arm and dragging him away from the museum. When they were a safe distance from the scene of the crime, he stopped, looking Jim right in the eye. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.  
  
“I wanted to see what you were doing,” Jim said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. He grinned at Mycroft. “You were stealing something, weren't you?”  
  
“I wasn't stealing anything,” Mycroft replied. “You promised not to follow me.”  
  
“I promised not to follow you from the hotel when you left,” Jim corrected. “And I didn't. I was already in London when you arrived. I followed you from the train station.”  
  
“You took the train here yesterday evening, after I dropped you off at home,” Mycroft deduced. He realized that he really should have known something was up when Jim hadn't been anywhere to be found that morning. He would need to be more careful with the boy in the future.  
  
“Yup,” Jim replied. He eyed Mycroft's bag curiously. “What did you take?”  
  
“I didn't take anything,” Mycroft repeated. It was technically true. “It's time we were getting back to the hotel.”  
  
“I can stay with you?” Jim asked excitedly.  
  
“For tonight,” Mycroft replied. “I can't very well leave you to wander London on your own all night.”  
  
They returned to the hotel in short order. Jim insisted on searching Mycroft's bag and his clothes for possible stolen items before finally obeying the repeated order to go to bed. He found nothing, naturally, but it still didn't convince him that Mycroft hadn't taken anything. He tried to pester Mycroft with more questions, but Mycroft brushed them off with a firm 'I won't tell you anything until morning.'  
  
He tucked Jim into bed, then retreated to the sofa.  
  
The break-in was the main story in the newspaper the following morning. Mycroft was pleased to see that the most important of the coded messages – the location of the insect – had made it into the enormous picture dominating the front page. There was no way that Sherlock would miss it; there was also no way he would he miss the insulting message near the bottom of the photo, either.  
  
Mycroft smiled, feeling confident that Sherlock would never be able to resist the puzzle that had been laid out for him.  
  
Jim read the article eagerly over breakfast, seemed positively excited to be sitting next to the man who'd pulled off such a high-profile theft. “You said you didn't steal anything,” he accused when he was finished.  
  
“I didn't steal anything,” Mycroft repeated, calmly sipping his tea.  
  
“But the insect...”  
  
“Look at the photo a little more closely,” Mycroft replied. “You're a detective, are you not?”  
  
Jim frowned, squinting down at the picture. “...do you have a pen?”  
  
Mycroft handed him the small pencil he kept in his pocket.  
  
Jim scribbled a few notes on the edge of the newspaper. He solved the lower message first, then laughed. “'You are all complete idiots'?”  
  
Mycroft shrugged.  
  
Jim was still snickering as he solved the second one. “Oh, so the insect is still there?” he asked. “Then why did you even--”  
  
“It was a message for someone,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“That's not important.”  
  
Jim scowled. “If it weren't important, it wouldn't matter if you told me.”  
  
After convincing Jim not to say anything to anyone about what he knew – not a particularly difficult feat – Mycroft brought him back home. His mother didn't seem to have any idea that her son had been gone for the past two days. Mycroft didn't bother to enlighten her.  
  
Mycroft spent the next couple of days with Jim, waiting for any indication that Sherlock had taken the bait. He got it on the third day, when the newspapers reported that a 'teen genius' had cracked the coded message and revealed that the insect had been in the museum the whole time.  
  
Sherlock had also seen fit to tell the police that every idea they'd come up with for how the thief had broken into the museum in the first place was completely wrong. However, they weren't buying his explanation that the thief had simply walked in and turned off the alarm, no matter how true it was.  
  
Mycroft informed Jim that he was leaving that evening. The boy didn't take it well.  
  
“Why can't I come with you?”  
  
“That would be kidnapping.”  
  
“It's not kidnapping if I come willingly,” Jim protested. His eyes shimmered slightly.  
  
“It is, I'm afraid.” Mycroft rubbed his shoulder, then smiled at him. “Enjoy your life. You're doing well.”  
  
Jim sniffed, then blinked his eyes several times. He tried to say something, but only a pained sound came out of his mouth. He put a hand to his chest, then abruptly turned and ran away.  
  
Mycroft considered going after the boy, but then thought the better of it. He checked out of the hotel, then returned to the building he owned.  
  
Mycroft stood in the middle of the large, open room and set the device to 2012. The world blurred around him. He expected the trip to be another dull one, 20 years of watching a totally unchanging empty room.  
  
He was _not_ expecting a pile of gold, jewelry, and other precious items to suddenly appear in the corner, then expand rapidly outward. By 1993, there were enough items to cover the entire floor of the room, with a particularly large pile in the corner. By 2000, there were several piles, all waist-high. By 2008, the walls were barely visible and some of the piles were above Mycroft's head. In 2009, they vanished entirely. Mycroft arrived in 2012 in a totally empty room.  
  
While the unexpected change was concerning, Mycroft had other priorities. He immediately took out his mobile and did a search on his brother.  
  
The results weren't any better than they had been last time; his brother had survived 2009, but he still hadn't made it beyond 2011.  
  
'Genius Detective Brutally Murdered in Museum.'  
  
Apparently, Sherlock had been shot, then dismembered, his body stuffed into one of the display cases. A coded message of some kind had been written across the floor in his blood, though the article didn't give any indication of what it was.  
  
According to the article, the police currently had no suspects. It didn't matter; Mycroft knew exactly who had done it, if not the precise reason why.  
  
It only took Mycroft a moment to notice the quiet hissing sound coming from behind him, but that moment was just a bit too long. The air around him filled with fog.  
  
Mycroft fell to his knees, barely able to breathe. He passed out within seconds.


	5. A Future Abandoned

Mycroft awoke tied to a chair. He was still in the same room, to his surprise. He could feel his 'watch' still on his hand, but couldn't activate it with his hands tied.  
  
Jim was there, relaxing in a chair across from him. His smile was pleasant, even happy – but not remotely sane. “You're back,” he said.  
  
“I am,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“You aren't going away again,” Jim added, voice practically serene.  
  
Mycroft couldn't help but wonder if Jim had been anything like this after killing Sherlock. Bile rose in his throat at the mental image of Sherlock's body, in pieces, shoved into a display case. He closed his eyes.  
  
“No... _no_!” Jim grabbed Mycroft's chin and pulled his face roughly upwards. “You look at _me_.”  
  
Mycroft did as he was ordered.  
  
“That's better,” Jim replied.  
  
“How did you find me?”  
  
“I set a little trap for you,” Jim said. He gestured toward the wall.  
  
Mycroft saw a small, almost unnoticeable motion sensor near the floor. It couldn't have been more than two years old at the absolute latest; Mycroft estimated that Jim must have installed it around the time of Sherlock's death. Mycroft glanced around the room, taking in the pair of small vents that had been altered to release the gas, as well as the security camera in the far corner of the room.  
  
“You know, you appeared out of nowhere on the camera footage,” Jim said. “There was nothing in the room, but then _poof!_ ” He waved a hand. “--there you were. How did you manage a trick like that?”  
  
“I'm sure you're clever enough to figure it out,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Jim scowled at him. He fingered the gun in his waistband, but then stopped, smiling broadly. “Yes... yes, it's a puzzle, isn't it? A puzzle just for _me_. Not for _Sherlock_.”  
  
Mycroft saw no reason to contradict him. “How did you learn about this building?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“I followed you back here from the hotel, after I...” Jim's face scrunched up for a brief moment, then went blank. “You walked inside and never came back out. I checked the records and found that this place had been purchased by the current owner a few days before you came to see me the first time.” He laughed. “Of course, he was nowhere to be found, and no one knew anything about him. All very _mysterious_.”  
  
“The gold...” Mycroft frowned. “Why did you store it here?”  
  
“It was supposed to be a present for you, but Sherlock--” Jim cut off, snarling, eyes hard. “ _Sherlock_ found it and the police took it all.”  
  
“You still use this place, even though the police know about it?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“Why not?” Jim replied. “They had no idea there was anything special about the building.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. If he'd been able to move his arms, he'd have buried his face in his hands. “Is that why you killed Sherlock?” he asked. “Because he took your present for me?”  
  
“No. I killed him to send you a message,” Jim answered. He held up Mycroft's mobile, still showing the article about Sherlock's death. “A message you apparently didn't get if you were only reading about it _now_.”  
  
“There are less violent ways to send a message.”  
  
“I tried less violent ways!” Jim shouted. “You didn't respond. I stole the crown jewels and you still didn't care!”  
  
“But why Sherlock? Why... that?”  
  
Jim paced in front of him. “Because he kept interfering, thinking my messages were meant for _him_. Can you imagine?” He stopped, scowling at the wall. “That original message really was for him, wasn't it?”  
  
“Yes.” Mycroft saw no reason to deny it at this point. “How did you figure that out?”  
  
“You left right after he solved it,” Jim replied. “I didn't realize it until a few days later, but it was obvious.”  
  
“Ah.” Mycroft had been hoping he might be able to go back and prevent Jim from learning of Sherlock at all, but that was looking less and less likely.  
  
“Of course, he had no idea. He thought I was the one who sent it.” Jim clenched his teeth, his whole body quivering with anger. “I told him about you, about the effort you put into making a puzzle just for _him_ , and he just... laughed at me. He didn't _appreciate_ it the way he should have.”  
  
Mycroft cringed. Sherlock had never been very good at knowing when to keep his mouth shut. “He had no way of knowing who I was,” he replied. “I never visited him the way I did you.” It was true, in a sense.  
  
Jim certainly looked pleased to hear it. “You know, his brother looks almost exactly like you,” he said. He smiled, as though remembering something amusing.  
  
“I'm not their father, if that's what you're thinking.”  
  
“I know that,” Jim replied. “I've seen photos of their father. You look similar, but not the same. Another relative, perhaps?”  
  
“Perhaps.” Mycroft didn't have the patience for making up a plausible story just then.  
  
“You still won't tell me anything, will you?” Jim said. He tapped the gun at his waist irritably.  
  
“You could try deduction,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Deduction is useless with you,” Jim said, sounding frustrated. “Deduction tells me that you haven't aged at all in 20 years, and that your clothing and hair are exactly the same as the last time I saw you.”  
  
Mycroft shrugged – or shrugged as much as he could while still tied to the chair, anyway. “Nothing of interest has happened to me since the last time you saw me,” he replied. “I'd really prefer to hear about what you've been up to while I've been away,” he added, smiling at Jim fondly. He had to pretend Jim was his 11-year-old self to manage it plausibly, but he was able to do it.  
  
It helped that Jim's nervous energy was closer to that of the boy he'd left behind than of the master criminal he'd known in the original timeline, at least at the moment. A series of conflicting expressions flitted across the man's face, anger warring with an almost puppy-like devotion.  
  
The devotion eventually won. “Yes. Yes, I'll tell you all about what I've been doing, but first...” He pulled out a knife.  
  
Mycroft watched the knife carefully, but didn't say anything.  
  
Jim sawed through the ropes binding Mycroft to the chair. “There. That should be more comfortable. You'd better not even think of trying to leave, though.”  
  
“I won't,” Mycroft replied, not even getting up from his chair. He rubbed his hands together to renew the circulation.  
  
“Good.” Jim returned to his chair and began to tell Mycroft about everything he'd missed.  
  
Jim had started his new life of crime in late 1991, several months after Mycroft had disappeared. Inspired by what Mycroft had pulled off at the museum, he'd gone after several priceless treasures of his own.  
  
“I didn't actually steal anything, if you'll recall,” Mycroft pointed out.  
  
Jim shrugged. “You wanted Sherlock to find the insect without you,” he said. “I wanted you to come and see me. Big difference.”  
  
By 1993, Jim was stealing entire collections of valuable items. Later that year, he pulled off his first serious theft, relatively speaking – he'd stolen a whole shipment of automatic weapons from the military. They still had no idea who had done it.  
  
Or most of them had no idea, anyway. Jim seemed to think that Mycroft's other self had figured it out at some point. Jim had first come onto his radar in 2005, though only as a phantom criminal responsible for an untold number of security breaches. He'd only learned of Jim by name after Jim's first confrontation with Sherlock in 2009.  
  
He'd pulled Jim in for interrogation in 2011, an event that Jim seemed to remember almost fondly. “I still have the video. It was _amazing_.” He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen several times, then held it up for Mycroft to see.  
  
The video showed Jim, sitting in a room Mycroft remembered disturbingly well. He was bruised and dirty, staring blankly into space as one of his guards slapped him over and over again. The guard wasn't one of the men who had worked for Mycroft in the original timeline, but he might as well have been for all the difference it made.  
  
The words 'COME BACK' were scrawled all over the walls.  
  
Other Mycroft stepped into the room, waving the guard away.  
  
Jim's blank expression faded, a huge smile covering his face.  
  
Other Mycroft took the seat across from Jim, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “You're certainly very intent on seeing me again,” he commented, glancing around the room.  
  
“Oh, honestly. You and that brother of yours, always assuming every message has to be for _you_.”  
  
“Who is it for, if not me?”  
  
“Your doppelgänger.” Jim held up a hand. “No, wait... the man whose doppelgänger _you_ are. You look like him, not the other way around.”  
  
“I see,” Other Mycroft replied, though it was obvious from the look on his face that he didn't see at all. “And just who is this man?”  
  
“If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you.”  
  
“Very well,” Other Mycroft replied. He pulled out a photo of a dark-haired man with a beard from his jacket pocket and held it up in front of him. “I would much rather hear about this man's plans, as it happens.”  
  
“Would you?” Jim asked pleasantly. “I don't know what makes you think I know anything about him.”  
  
Other Mycroft pulled out a stack of other photos and handed them to Jim. The one on top showed Jim talking to the man with the beard. Jim flipped through the stack, revealing dozens of other photos of himself going about his day. He gave Mycroft an adoring look. “You've been spying on me,” he replied, in much the way a normal person might say: 'You remembered my birthday!'  
  
“Does that bother you?” Other Mycroft asked. His tone aimed for intimidating, but fell a bit flat.  
  
“No,” Jim replied. “I know how to properly appreciate being spied upon. Unlike your brother.”  
  
Other Mycroft stiffened. “You've been spying on Sherlock?”  
  
“Please. I don't care enough about Sherlock to spy on him,” Jim replied, voice full of disgust. “I meant that he doesn't appreciate the spying _you_ do. You have cameras tracking him everywhere he goes. He has no idea how good he has it.”  
  
Other Mycroft just stared at him, not even bothering to hide his confusion anymore. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, then dropped them. “If I agree to continue spying on you, will you give us the information you have?”  
  
Jim sighed dramatically. “If we did it that way, I would know it didn't come from the heart,” he replied sadly. “Although...” He perked up a little. “I might be willing to exchange a bit of information, if you are.”  
  
“What sort of information?” Mycroft asked warily.  
  
“Don't worry, it's nothing dangerous,” Jim answered. He leaned forward. “I just want to know about _you_.”  
  
“About me?” Other Mycroft repeated. “What do you want to know about me?”  
  
“ _Everything_ ,” Jim whispered. He scooted his chair closer to Other Mycroft, so that their knees were touching. “I want to know _everything_ about you.” He rested his chin on his hands, watching Other Mycroft with interest.  
  
Other Mycroft glanced at the one-way mirror on the wall, then back at Jim. “I suppose that there would be no harm in an information exchange of the sort you are proposing.”  
  
“Oh, good,” Jim replied cheerfully. “Let's start from the beginning. What were you like as a child?”  
  
Other Mycroft made an expression that was half attempted-smile, half grimace. “I was a quiet child. Studious. I loved my brother dearly.”  
  
“Come _on_. You're going to have to do better than that,” Jim replied. “Tell me something that I couldn't figure out just by looking at you. Who were your friends?”  
  
Other Mycroft swallowed. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He took in a deep breath. “I didn't have many friends until I went away to school.”  
  
“You mean you didn't have _any_ friends, don't you?” Jim replied, expression almost predatory.  
  
Other Mycroft continued to meet his gaze, though he looked like he would have turned away if he could have. “We agreed to an exchange. If you don't intend to--”  
  
“April.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The first attack is scheduled for the second half of April,” Jim said. “Now, what was it you were saying about not having any friends?”  
  
Other Mycroft stared at him for several seconds, body tense. “The other children didn't like me very much,” he replied eventually.  
  
“Who hated you the most?” Jim asked eagerly.  
  
Other Mycroft paused. He forced a smile onto his face, then began to speak. “Tom. There was a boy named Tom...”  
  
The interrogation – or information exchange, as they were calling it – continued on and on. Mycroft watched as the Jim in the video slowly and painstakingly pried into every corner of his other self's childhood, bringing up things that even Mycroft himself had nearly forgotten. His other self had held up as best as could be expected, given the very personal information he was forced to expose.  
  
Watching his secrets being revealed in such a manner made Mycroft's skin crawl, and they hadn't even gone beyond the age of seven when the real life Jim stopped the video.  
  
Mycroft supposed it was a fitting punishment for what he'd done to Sherlock in the original timeline.  
  
“It keeps going like this,” Jim said as he pocketed the phone. “But it would take weeks to show you all of it.”  
  
“I don't need to see it,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“No, you don't, do you?” Jim said. “He vanished a month after I killed Sherlock, and there's no reason to talk about him when we can talk about _you_ instead.”  
  
Mycroft remained silent.  
  
Jim abruptly turned and kicked the wall, hard, then strode back over to Mycroft and waved a finger in his face. “At least tell me one thing. Just one.”  
  
“What thing?” Mycroft asked. Predicting another demand for his name, he ran through several plausible answers in his mind.  
  
Jim stared at nothing for a long moment before responding. “What did I do?” he asked, uncharacteristically subdued.  
  
Mycroft blinked. “What?”  
  
“What did I _do_? Why did you stop watching me?” Jim was shaking now.  
  
Guilt stabbed through Mycroft's chest.  
  
Many people could look back on a course of action and speculate on where they'd gone wrong, how things could have turned out differently if they hadn't done a certain thing at a certain time – but Mycroft was probably the only person in history to know for certain. He knew for a fact that Jim would have become a happy, productive member of society if not for that last trip back to 1991.  
  
“It wasn't anything you did,” he replied eventually. “I'm sorry.” Feeling he was unlikely to get any more useful information out of Jim, Mycroft quickly set his 'watch' to 1993, not even bothering to change the other settings.  
  
“What are you--”  
  
“I'm sorry,” Mycroft repeated. He stood, activating the device at the same time. He saw Jim's face freeze in an expression of utter shock for just a moment before the world began to rewind.


	6. Back and Forth

The massive piles of treasure reappeared in 2009, then got smaller and smaller as Mycroft traveled backward. By 1993, the floor was still completely covered, but there was only a single waist-high pile in the corner.  
  
Mycroft stumbled as he landed, falling down into a sea of coins and jewelry. Metal clinked all around him.  
  
13-year-old Jim ran into the room, wearing his school uniform and carrying a small bag with him. His eyes lit up when he saw Mycroft. “You're back!” He walked easily over the mass of stuff on the floor, coming to stand right next to Mycroft. “But... how did you get in without disturbing any of the stuff near the door?”  
  
“It's my building,” Mycroft replied, getting to his feet. “Surely that isn't too surprising.”  
  
Jim didn't look remotely satisfied with that answer. “But--”  
  
“If you don't question how I came to be here, I won't question how you came to be here,” Mycroft replied. “Agreed?”  
  
“You probably already know how I came to be here,” Jim complained.  
  
“You've certainly been busy while I've been gone,” Mycroft said, gesturing at the room around them.  
  
“You can have it all,” Jim said, chest puffing up slightly. “That's why I've been keeping it here.”  
  
The older Jim had mentioned that the gold had been intended as a present, but Mycroft hadn't registered it enough to come up with a plan for refusing it when he returned. His mind had been otherwise occupied at the time. “I'll keep it here as well,” he replied. “You can look after it for me.”  
  
Jim deflated. “I stole it for _you_ ,” he said.  
  
Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, I know what you've been doing,” he replied. “I think it's time we had a talk about that.”  
  
Jim went stiff. “I was only doing what you did,” he accused.  
  
“I know,” Mycroft said. “But while I appreciate the thought, I would prefer it if you did not dedicate your life to crime.”  
  
“Why shouldn't I?” Jim replied, crossing his arms. “Everything else is boring. Every _one_ else is boring.”  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. “Don't you think it's a bit too easy, stealing things?”  
  
Jim shrugged. “Sometimes.”  
  
“That's because it's far easier to steal than it is to make something theft-proof,” Mycroft said. “If you would like a real challenge, try preventing others from committing theft.”  
  
Jim tilted his head, seeming to mull it over. He didn't look entirely convinced. “Is that what you do? Deduce possible crimes before they happen?”  
  
“You might say that,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Then why did you let me steal all of this?” Jim asked, waving a hand around at the gold. “You had to have known it was me.”  
  
“I'm not concerned with mere jewelry,” Mycroft answered. “There are more serious things to consider... such as those weapons I believe you were thinking of taking.”  
  
Jim started. “You...” He laughed. “Of course you knew. You always know.”  
  
“Think about what I've said.” Mycroft patted his shoulder, then dropped his hand.  
  
Jim's head snapped up at him. “You aren't leaving already, are you?”  
  
“I'm afraid I must,” Mycroft replied. He'd stayed much too long during the previous visit, in his opinion. It had only fueled Jim's obsession with him.  
  
“But you've only been here a few minutes!” Jim's face contorted in a combination of hurt and anger. “That's not fair!” He looked ready to throw something.  
  
Mycroft reached out to touch him again, but Jim pushed his hand away. Mycroft hesitated for a moment, then leaned down and hugged him, awkwardly patting his back.  
  
Jim froze for a moment, then relaxed. After a few seconds, he returned the hug full force, practically squeezing the air out of Mycroft. He buried his face in Mycroft's jacket.  
  
Mycroft reached up and tentatively stroked his hair. It had been years since he'd had a hug quite like this – Sherlock had already started pushing him away by the time he'd reached Jim's age. Having Jim return his affection felt far better than Mycroft really thought it should, given the circumstances.  
  
He let the hug go on for quite some time, ending it only when it became clear that Jim never would.  
  
Mycroft took Jim's hand, then looked him straight in the eyes. “I hope you will take care of yourself while I'm gone,” he said.  
  
Jim blinked watery eyes a couple of times, then nodded, not saying anything. He squeezed Mycroft's hand tightly.  
  
Mycroft squeezed back one time, then pulled his hand away. He left the building before Jim could snap out of his unusually quiet state, then made his way to the nearest library. He found an out-of-the-way spot and set the device for 2012, the time of day just before the library would open its doors.  
  
Mycroft waited fifteen minutes before he left his hiding spot. Jim had taken his phone during the last trip back to 2012, so he would have to make do with one of the library computers for finding information.  
  
He was slightly puzzled as he stepped out from behind the bookshelves. The computers he found were very modern – in fact, they were more modern than the ones his office had had in the original 2012, let alone what most libraries had. Large, sleek touchscreen monitors were everywhere; holographic signs dominated the recently remodeled walls.  
  
Mycroft checked his 'watch' again, wondering if he'd gone just a few years too far into the future, but it was adamant that it was 2012.  
  
He sat down at one of the computers, immediately doing a search on Sherlock. He found two articles, neither of which left him optimistic.  
  
'Student Overdoses in Dorm; University Officials Denounce Drug Use.'  
  
'Suicide in Dorm Prompts Legal Action.'  
  
At first, Mycroft assumed the two articles were about the same death, but it turned out not to be the case. Sherlock Holmes, age 19, had accidentally overdosed on cocaine in his dorm room in 1995. Mycroft Holmes, age 26, had committed suicide in the same room a month later.  
  
The American project hadn't even been started yet in 1995. Even if it had, Mycroft would not have had the necessary access at that point in his life.  
  
Mycroft dug through other newspaper articles from the same time period, trying to figure out what had happened to make his brother overdose. He discovered the answer fairly quickly: nothing. Absolutely nothing had happened.  
  
Despite Sherlock having been properly set on the path to being a detective at age 15, he'd had no cases to solve since the age of 17, when the series of bizarre thefts he'd been investigating had mysteriously stopped, seemingly stopping all other major crimes in the process. From 1993 to 1995, there were no major thefts, murders, or acts of terrorism in the UK with which Sherlock would have been able to distract himself solving. There were ordinary, run-of-the-mill thefts and murders, but far fewer of them, and none of them were anything Sherlock would have deigned to pay attention to.  
  
Out of curiosity, Mycroft looked beyond 1995 and learned that the trend continued all the way to the present date, expanding out of the UK to encompass the world as a whole. There had been no terrorist attacks, in 2001 or any other year. There had been no new wars in the Middle East. The entire world was in a record state of peace and stability. The money previously expended on the wars of the past decade had been channeled into other areas, resulting in major technological advances and a booming global economy.  
  
Everything was perfect, but for the one thing Mycroft actually cared about.  
  
Mycroft walked back behind the bookshelves. He set the device for the summer of 1995, three months before Sherlock would overdose.  
  
Once Mycroft arrived in 1995, he went straight to London. There was no reason what had worked in 1991 wouldn't work in 1995; all he needed to do was ensure that there would be several inexplicable events for Sherlock to investigate over the next few years. Sherlock had largely overcome the most dangerous phase of his addiction by 1999 in the original timeline, so Mycroft would ensure that he had enough to keep himself occupied until at least the year 2000.  
  
It was difficult to arrange for five years worth of bizarre events in advance, but Mycroft had more than enough money available to make it happen. He made sure each of the crimes he envisioned would be possible even if technology happened to advance somewhat beyond schedule. He picked targets that were more interesting than they were valuable or secure, and in his instructions he included several messages to be left behind at various crime scenes. He tried to avoid any sort of pattern that would lead to Jim predicting the crimes before they occurred and preventing them.  
  
He'd intended to go through the entire trip without running into Jim at all, which was why he was so shocked to run into the boy as he left his meeting with one of the criminals he'd paid to keep Sherlock entertained. The boy had grown a great deal since the last time Mycroft had seen him. He looked almost, but not quite, like the adult Mycroft knew in 2012.  
  
“What are _you_ doing here?” Jim asked, eyes wide.  
  
The boy hadn't followed him, then. “I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Mycroft replied, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him away from the building.  
  
“I've been tracking someone,” Jim replied. He took Mycroft's hand and squeezed it, not letting go afterwards. “Whoever it is has been running all over the city, contacting different--” Jim stopped abruptly, looking at Mycroft. “It's you, isn't it?”  
  
“How did you come to know about this?” Mycroft asked. He'd only even been back three days.  
  
Jim led him around a corner, seeming to have a destination in mind. “I have a network of people reporting back to me,” Jim replied with a grin. “But when I realized there was only one criminal who fit the pattern who hadn't been contacted yet, I decided to come in person.” The grin turned into a frown. “What were you doing here, anyway?”  
  
Mycroft didn't reply immediately. He didn't want to tell Jim what he'd been doing, but the boy was more than intelligent enough to figure out who was responsible once the crimes began to occur. Lying was starting to seem less desirable than simply telling the truth. “I'd prefer to have this discussion in private,” he said, mostly to stall.  
  
“I have a place nearby,” Jim replied. He pulled Mycroft down the street, eventually leading him to a boarded up shop.  
  
For all that the building appeared to be falling apart on the outside, the inside was clean and nicely furnished, even if the sofa and two chairs were a bit on the cheap side. Jim plopped down on the sofa, dragging Mycroft down onto it with him. He still hadn't released Mycroft's hand.  
  
“Well?” Jim watched him intently.  
  
“You recall what I had to do four years ago,” Mycroft began.  
  
Jim scowled faintly. “Yes. You were sending a message,” he replied, “to... _him_.” The hatred in his voice wasn't quite as strong as that of his older self, but it was still there. “Is that what this is about?” he asked. “It's all to send him another message?”  
  
“Several messages, in fact,” Mycroft replied. “I would be very grateful if you didn't interfere in the transmission of these messages.”  
  
Jim squeezed his hand painfully tight, cutting off the circulation. He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing. “What's so special about _him_?” he demanded, eerily echoing the question he'd asked about Carl Powers six years earlier.  
  
Mycroft pried Jim's hand off of his, registering the flash of near-rage in Jim's eyes as he did it. “He's...” Mycroft searched for a word that he could use to describe Sherlock that wouldn't instantly provoke jealousy. He couldn't say 'like you', however much he might have wanted to. “...a bit of an idiot.”  
  
Jim stared at him. “...what?”  
  
“He is a relative of mine, of sorts,” Mycroft replied. Jim had managed to find out about that in every previous timeline, so there didn't seem to be much reason to hide it. “If I do not keep him occupied, I fear he will do harm to himself.”  
  
Jim immediately perked up. “A relative?” he asked. His eyes flickered back and forth. “I looked into his family and didn't find you... even if you do look like all of them,” he added, scanning Mycroft's features.  
  
“A relative of sorts,” Mycroft repeated, glad that Jim seemed to be taking the information as an opportunity to find out more about him, as opposed to a new reason to hate Sherlock. “There is no record of me. However, family responsibilities are a serious matter.”  
  
“That's all he is?” Jim asked, looking at Mycroft like he was insane. “A family responsibility?”  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft replied. Seeing that Jim was on the verge of more questions, he quickly added: “Quite unlike you, of course.”  
  
Jim stopped just before saying whatever he'd been about to say. “Me?” he asked.  
  
“ _You_ are special,” Mycroft replied.  
  
A spark of something filled Jim's eyes. He gave a small smile quite unlike anything Mycroft had ever seen on his face before, either in the past or the future. It was a strange combination of quietly pleased, but also... slightly devious. “You really think so?” he asked.  
  
Mycroft held back a frown. There was something off about Jim's tone, a carefulness to it that he couldn't account for. “Yes,” he replied, then leaned over and hugged the boy in the hope of preventing any more questions.  
  
Jim immediately wrapped his arms around Mycroft, pressing his face into Mycroft's shoulder and breathing deeply. After a few seconds, he moved to the side, seating himself in Mycroft's lap.  
  
It seemed an oddly childish thing to do, but the other position had been somewhat uncomfortable, so Mycroft saw no reason to complain. He rubbed Jim's back lightly with one hand, patting his hair with the other. He intended the gesture to be calming, but he felt Jim's breathing increase under his hand.  
  
After several minutes, Jim pulled back. His cheeks were pink, his eyes frantically searching Mycroft's face. He put a hand on Mycroft's jaw, slowly leaning in towards him...  
  
Mycroft's eyes widened. He leaned backward as far as he could, quickly nudging Jim off of his lap. He cleared his throat. “I really must be going,” he said, getting to his feet.  
  
Jim glared at him. “I don't see why.”  
  
“This is inappropriate,” Mycroft replied.  
  
The glare disappeared, replaced by a small smirk. “Like letting me sleep in your hotel room would have been inappropriate?”  
  
Mycroft could tell what Jim was thinking – Mycroft had eventually given in on the matter of the hotel room, if only for one night. 'This is inappropriate' was surely only a challenge to find the situation that would get him what he wanted. “I am not interested in 15-year-old boys,” Mycroft said bluntly.  
  
Jim sat up to attention. “What's the youngest age you _would_ be interested in?” he asked.  
  
“Far older than you are,” Mycroft answered.  
  
He expected a scowl, but didn't get one. “...okay,” Jim replied, face completely unreadable.  
  
Recognizing an ominous sign when he saw one, Mycroft quickly made his exit.  
  
Mycroft almost didn't bother returning to 2012. It already seemed obvious that his interference in this instance couldn't possibly have resulted in an overall positive change to the timeline. However, without more information about the ultimate effects of his actions, he would have no way of knowing what he needed to do to improve the situation. The trip would give him a badly needed perspective on the problem.  
  
And so, he found another library, retreated into the stacks, and made the trip forward.  
  
Technologically, things seemed to be back to normal. Mycroft went to one of the computers and did his usual search.  
  
'Genius Detective Brutally Murdered in Museum.'  
  
Mycroft stared at the familiar headline, wondering if he'd somehow accidentally traveled back to the wrong 2012. The article itself was almost identical to the one he'd read two trips ago.  
  
Knowing he didn't have the full picture, Mycroft decided to take a trip to his old office to see if he could talk his way in. Based on his experience in the other timelines, his other self had to be long gone by now, either dead or disappeared off into a branch universe somewhere.  
  
After a momentary burst of shock and confusion when he appeared, his former assistant immediately handed over his files, allowing him to look them over in his old office.  
  
There, he learned that Jim had stopped trying to prevent crime just after Mycroft had last seen him in 1995, but he'd only actively returned to crime himself a year later. His crimes were similar to what they had been two timelines ago, but the coded messages he left behind had a slightly different tone to them. 'I'm old enough', 'You can have me', and 'I don't want anyone else' were scrawled all over several major thefts from 1996 until 2000. From 2001 until 2011, the messages slowly changed, eventually ending in 'I _WILL_ HAVE YOU', written in Sherlock's blood all over the museum floor.  
  
The other Mycroft had still brought him in for interrogation in early 2011. Mycroft knew he wouldn't want to see what was on the video, but he'd played it anyway. He forced himself to watch as Jim scratched 'I WANT YOU' into the walls over and over again, then crawled into the other Mycroft's lap when he arrived to talk. “I want to know _everything_ about you.”  
  
It had not been an easy day for his other self.  
  
Mycroft returned to the library, then retreated to the stacks, setting the device to late December 1995.  
  
When Mycroft arrived, he immediately made the trip back to Brighton, returning to the building Jim knew he owned. He stood amongst the piles of gold and waited, certain that Jim would learn of his appearance soon enough.  
  
It took half an hour for Jim to show up, looking like he'd run a marathon. “You're really here.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Are you here for me... or for _Sherlock_?” Jim asked, tone challenging.  
  
Mycroft felt a shiver run down his spine – it was the first time he'd heard young Jim actually say Sherlock's name aloud. “I'm here to see you, of course.”  
  
Jim smiled. “Have you changed your mind, then?” he asked, tone overly sweet. He took a step towards Mycroft. “Are you here to give me a late Christmas present?”  
  
Mycroft stayed where he was, looking at Jim impassively. “I'm here to talk.”  
  
“Talk about what?”  
  
Mycroft swallowed. “Relationships,” he replied, feeling horribly awkward. His only previous attempt at a conversation like this, with Sherlock, had not gone well. He didn't know whether having to do this with a 15-year-old boy who wanted to sleep with him would be better or worse than having to do it with a 15-year-old boy who hated him and claimed he'd never want to sleep with anyone, but he was about to find out.  
  
Jim smirked. “Sounds _exciting_ ,” he replied, in a tone he probably imagined was seductive.  
  
“I'm glad you think so,” Mycroft said. “Are there any boys or girls at school who have caught your eye?”  
  
“Are you serious?” Jim asked. “They're all idiots. Useful idiots, but still idiots.”  
  
“Then perhaps you should be looking elsewhere,” Mycroft replied. Before Jim could misinterpret him, he added: “I'm sure there's someone out there who would interest you – someone close to your own age.”  
  
Jim scowled. “There's already someone who interests me,” he said, crossing his arms.  
  
“Very few people go their entire lives without being attracted to more than one person,” Mycroft replied. “If only you focus your attention on that person, you might end up missing the others.”  
  
“Why do you even care?” Jim asked, kicking a small mound of jewelry.  
  
“I will have to leave you again,” Mycroft replied. “I would prefer to know that you won't be alone in my absence.”  
  
“You could always _not go_ ,” Jim replied.  
  
“I'm afraid that isn't an option.” Mycroft paused, then took one of Jim's hands in his. “Please promise me that you'll make an effort to find someone else.”  
  
Jim looked up at Mycroft, not saying anything. He pressed Mycroft's hand between both of his, stroking Mycroft's wrist with his thumb.  
  
“Promise me,” Mycroft repeated.  
  
Jim looked down, face alternating between anger, hurt, and resignation. “Fine. I promise.”  
  
Mycroft patted Jim on the shoulder, then left. He headed back to the nearest library and back to 2012. His search on Sherlock's name turned up several articles, the most relevant being one from late 2011.  
  
'Gay Thief Duo Found Dead in Bank Vault'  
  
Mycroft sighed. He knew exactly who the title referred to before he even read the article.  
  
The truly sad thing was that, at this point, Mycroft could easily have settled for a universe where Sherlock was part of a “gay thief duo” with Jim Moriarty, if only it meant everyone involved surviving through 2012.


	7. An Affair Interrupted

After reading through several of the articles, Mycroft was able to get a full picture of Jim and Sherlock's combined life of crime. In this timeline, Jim had continued his crime spree after Mycroft had left him, but the messages he'd left at the scenes of his crimes had been targeted at Sherlock. They'd matched up with the crimes Mycroft had put in place so well that the police currently considered Jim the perpetrator of the whole set.  
  
The messages he'd left weren't angry or desperate. They taunted Sherlock, playfully insulting him and eventually daring him to track Jim down. 'If you can find me, you might be interesting enough to bother with.'  
  
Toward the end of 1999, Jim had begun leaving behind clues suggesting they meet at the museum where Mycroft had committed the first theft, in 1991. Sherlock must have gone, as the first joint crime involving the two of them had occurred not a month later.  
  
Over the next eleven years, they'd set their sights higher and higher, choosing targets based the supposedly secure measures taken to protect them, as opposed to any apparent desire to actually profit from any of the things they acquired. According to the final article, they'd kept most of it in 'an ordinary building in the middle of Brighton'.  
  
Their deaths were oddly ordinary, compared to what had occurred in previous timelines. Jim and Sherlock had stolen from a long list of powerful entities, including a number of governments, terrorist groups, and organized crime syndicates. One of them had laid a trap in a particular bank, hyping up the new high-tech security being put in a particular vault. In reality, the only 'high-tech' thing about it was the man with a gun hiding inside.  
  
Which of their particular enemies had arranged it was unknown; the bank was currently being investigated, but the police were stated as not being hopeful.  
  
It took Mycroft a little longer than usual to work out the best point in time to return to. His first instinct was to allow another two years to pass, returning to 1997. However, after a bit more thought, he realized that he would be completely obliterating another full two years he knew Sherlock to be relatively happy and healthy, focused on the task of finding the mysterious message-leaving criminal.  
  
In the end, he decided to return to 1999, to intercept Jim before he met Sherlock at the museum.  
  
Mycroft took a day to rest, then returned to London.  
  
Mycroft made the trip backward in the museum itself. He arrived in 1999 just before the museum opened, appearing in a stall in the men's room. The meeting time stated in the coded message was noon, but Mycroft knew both Sherlock and Jim well enough to know that both of them would be loitering around the museum well before then. Sherlock would be trying to deduce which of the people around him might be the person he was to meet, while Jim would be watching Sherlock discreetly from a distance, either from a good vantage point or by way of the security cameras.  
  
Mindful of the importance of not being seen by Sherlock, Mycroft decided to test the security camera possibility first. He left the men's room and stood in the hallway outside, putting himself directly in the path of the nearest camera. Then he waited.  
  
Jim came strolling up to him roughly five minutes later, smiling like he hadn't a care in the world. He was dressed like an overeager tourist. He snapped a photo with his camera before Mycroft could do anything to stop him. “Hi!” he said brightly, talking around the large piece of gum in his mouth. He was his full adult height, now, and he looked almost the same as he would ten years later.  
  
“Hello,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Are you here to see me or to see Sherlock?” Jim asked. “Or is it to see both of us together?”  
  
“I'm here to see you,” Mycroft answered. “I would prefer it if Sherlock didn't see me.”  
  
Jim pressed a button on his camera, smiling down at the screen. “I suppose I shouldn't show him this picture, then.”  
  
“I don't suppose there's any way I could convince you not to talk to him at all,” Mycroft said. When a small smirk appeared on Jim's face, he added: “By which I mean any _appropriate_ way, of course.”  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. “You're no fun.” He turned the camera off, then let it hang from the strap around his neck. “You told me to find someone else,” he said, crossing his arms. “He's the only interesting person I've found. He's more intelligent than you let on.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
“Then why can't I meet him?” Jim asked, eyes glinting with anger. “You don't think I'm good enough for your precious Sherlock?”  
  
Mycroft sighed. “I'm trying to keep you both out of trouble,” he replied. “I don't want the two of you going on an inter-continental crime spree.”  
  
“So you're okay with the inter-continental crime spree, as long as I do it alone,” Jim said irritably. “But you want me to find someone, so that I won't be alone. Make up your _mind_ already.”  
  
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't want you committing criminal acts, either,” he replied. “You have a good future ahead of you. You're already pursuing graduate studies in physics, yes?”  
  
“Yes,” Jim replied. “Not that it's especially difficult.”  
  
“I'm sure you'll find a challenge eventually.”  
  
“So... you'd have no problem with me meeting Sherlock, as long as I don't turn him into a criminal.”  
  
“...Yes.” It wasn't ideal, but it would do.  
  
Jim looked at him intently. “I don't see why I should agree to this.”  
  
Mycroft took his hand and squeezed it. “Because I care about you,” he replied.  
  
Jim sighed happily, then pulled Mycroft into a hug. Mycroft returned it awkwardly, not wanting to reject him, but not wanting an unfortunate repeat of their last hug, either.  
  
Jim broke the hug after only a few moments. “And I care about you, too!” he said, with almost exaggerated warmth. He smirked at Mycroft. “...but that's not a good enough reason.”  
  
Mycroft stared at Jim, slowly realizing how much his influence had lessened. “Why not?”  
  
“Well, you only seem to appear when I'm on the verge of doing something you don't approve of,” Jim replied. “Or when Sherlock is. If I ever want to see you again, then logically, I should do _anything but_ become an ordinary, law-abiding citizen.”  
  
Mycroft had to admit the boy – no, the young man – had a point. He frowned. “If I promise to come back in two years, no matter the circumstances, then will you agree?”  
  
Jim immediately perked up. “In _one_ year. I want you to come back at least once a year.”  
  
Mycroft hesitated, but he couldn't see any reason against it. It wasn't as though he lacked the time. “Agreed.”  
  
Jim's eyes widened, a stupid grin covering his entire face. “You're-- you're really agreeing,” he blurted out. He hugged Mycroft again, then did a little dance. “I'll hold you to it.”  
  
Mycroft didn't bother to question how.  
  
“I still want to meet him,” Jim continued, “but I won't recruit him. You can watch, if you like.”  
  
“I wouldn't want to risk being seen.”  
  
“Not a problem,” Jim replied. He took Mycroft's hand and pulled him toward the maintenance room.  
  
Inside were a number of small monitors hooked up to a computer, quite advanced by the standards of 1999. There was a pair of headphones hooked up to the computer, which was in turn connected to a series wires attached to the wall. Three of the monitors showed various locations in the museum on a rotation, while the fourth was fixed on the main exhibit hall.  
  
Jim had almost certainly set it all up himself.  
  
23-year-old Sherlock was already visible in the exhibit hall, sitting on a bench watching the crowd. Mycroft smiled when he caught sight of him alive and well – and hopefully likely to stay that way this time around.  
  
“I have a microphone set up in one of the displays to record the conversation,” Jim said. “But you can use it to listen in.”  
  
“I appreciate it,” Mycroft replied, picking up the headphones.  
  
“Good.” Jim gave him a playful look as he walked out the door. “It's show time.”  
  
Jim entered the main exhibit hall a few minutes later. He walked over to the central display case, which currently housed several ancient Greek artifacts. His voice came echoing through the headphones. “I hope you can hear me, Shadow Man.”  
  
Mycroft could, though there was an unfortunate amount of ambient noise in the background.  
  
Jim paced aimlessly back and forth in front of the exhibit. He took a few pictures, then looked at the plaque.  
  
He then repeated the whole thing over again, in exactly the pattern as he had the first time.  
  
Mycroft saw Sherlock immediately focus in on Jim. He watched Jim take the same photos, read the same plaque, walk in the same pattern. When Jim started to repeat it the whole thing a third time, Sherlock got to his feet and walked over, a smug smile on his face. He stood right next to Jim.  
  
“A bit obvious, don't you think?”  
  
Jim turned and blinked at him, his face the perfect picture of innocent confusion. “Sorry?”  
  
“You could have varied it a little,” Sherlock pressed on. “Even an idiot would have noticed eventually.”  
  
Jim shook his head. “I really don't know what you're talking about.”  
  
“I know you're here to meet me,” Sherlock said, voice no less confident than before.  
  
Jim let the camera hang from its strap. He leaned against the railing, chewing his gum with his mouth open. He looked Sherlock up and down, grinning. “Bit forward for a pickup line, isn't it?”  
  
Sherlock stiffened. His eyes darted all over the place before finally fixing on Jim's again. “I'm not trying to pick you up, you idiot.”  
  
“I would hope not, with that attitude of yours.”  
  
Sherlock put a hand to his forehead, then dropped it again. “I know you're the one who's been leaving me messages. The one who broke into the museum eight years ago.”  
  
Jim laughed. “When I was eleven years old, you mean?”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “You're only nineteen?”  
  
“Too young for you?”  
  
“No-- Yes-- That's not what this is about!”  
  
“Shame,” Jim replied, openly leering at him.  
  
Sherlock spun towards the exit. “This was a mistake.”  
  
“Of course it was,” Jim replied. “If I were the person you're thinking of, I wouldn't just suddenly confess everything, now, would I?”  
  
Sherlock froze.  
  
“You need evidence if you're going to make that kind of accusation.”  
  
Sherlock turned back around. “I know it's you,” he insisted. “The fact that you met me here is proof enough.”  
  
“For you, perhaps,” Jim said. “But not for anyone else.”  
  
“I didn't intend to tell anyone else,” Sherlock replied.  
  
Jim stopped chewing, pushing the ball of gum around his mouth with his tongue. “Really?” he asked. He held out a hand. “Jim Moriarty.”  
  
Sherlock looked at the hand for a moment, then shook it. “Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“Yes, I know.”  
  
“You're admitting it, then.”  
  
“I'm admitting that I know you,” Jim replied. He stood up straight. “Unfortunately, I really have to be going now.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and pressed it into Sherlock's hand. “Call me if you figure anything out.” He winked at Sherlock, then walked out of the main exhibit hall.  
  
Sherlock just stared after him.  
  
Sherlock was still standing in the middle of the main exhibit hall when Jim walked into the maintenance room a few minutes later.  
  
Mycroft pulled off the headphones, setting them down on the computer. “Was that your way of asking him for a date?”  
  
“No,” Jim replied. “I don't think he's worth dating.”  
  
Mycroft frowned. “Why not?”  
  
“Because you're coming back,” Jim said, smirking at him.  
  
Mycroft decided not to get into that particular issue again. He didn't think a year's worth of pining would be enough to drive Jim down the path to ruin. “If you aren't interested in a relationship with Sherlock, then why did you bother to go through with meeting him?”  
  
Jim shrugged. “He's been chasing me for years. It'll be interesting to see what he does now that he knows who I am.” Jim unplugged the headphones from the computer, rolling up the cord. “I need to have _something_ interesting in my life when you aren't here. Is that a problem?”  
  
“Not as long as neither of you gets hurt,” Mycroft replied. “Or ends up in prison.”  
  
Jim nodded. “I'll keep that in mind.”  
  
“Well.” Mycroft made for the door. “I'll see you next year.”  
  
“You'd better,” Jim replied.  
  
Mycroft went straight back to the men's room, setting the device for the year 2000.


	8. A Decade in Ten Days

**2000**  
  
The trip forward was surprisingly short, taking less than a minute in total. Mycroft walked out of the stall and over to the row of sinks, intending to wash his face.  
  
He was not expecting to see Jim's reflection in the corner of the mirror.  
  
Mycroft spun around to find Jim standing near the doorway, dressed in a fine suit.  
  
Jim looked at him with a thoughtful smile and slightly narrowed eyes. “You really did come back.”  
  
“I did promise I would,” Mycroft replied, cursing himself for not choosing a different location for making the trip forward. It hadn’t occurred to him that Jim would figure out that he would reappear in the same place and come to meet him. “Shall we go somewhere a little more comfortable?” he added, gesturing to the door.  
  
“Oh?” Jim looked him up and down, flicking his tongue against his teeth. “Are you finally going to let me--”  
  
“No.”  
  
Jim shook his head. “Then I'm not going to let you distract me,” he said. “I checked every stall in this room when I came in an hour ago. You weren't in any of them.” He walked into the stall Mycroft had just vacated, hitting various spots on the wall behind the toilet.  
  
“You must have missed my arrival.”  
  
“And just how _did_ you arrive?” Jim asked, giving the wall one last smack before leaving the stall.  
  
“I'm sure you're clever enough to figure that one out on your own,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Jim glared at him, though the corners of his mouth were quirking upward. “That’s not fair. I know you're only saying that so I won’t ask anymore questions about your ability to literally appear out of thin air.”  
  
“Are you telling me you _aren’t_ clever enough to figure it out on your own?” Mycroft asked.  
  
Jim glared at him some more. “No,” he said stubbornly.  
  
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to make deductions over the next year while I’m gone,” Mycroft replied. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to waste our day together in here--”  
  
“No!” Jim interrupted. “No. I can do that later.”  
  
“Good,” Mycroft replied, pushing his way out the door.  
  
Jim followed. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then let’s go right now,” Jim replied. He took Mycroft’s hand and led him to a nearby restaurant. It was closed, but Jim knocked on the door and a man appeared to let them inside. “We’ll have the whole place to ourselves,” he said, leading Mycroft over to one of the tables. He held on to Mycroft’s hand even after they were seated, lightly running his fingers over Mycroft’s palm.  
  
Mycroft allowed it for a moment, then pulled his hand away. “I take it they were expecting us?” he asked, wondering just how much of the day Jim had planned in advance.  
  
“Sort of,” Jim replied. “I couldn’t be certain when or where you would return, but I do like to be prepared.”  
  
“I see,” Mycroft said, gratefully accepting a cup of coffee from the waiter. “What have you been doing with yourself this past year?”  
  
Jim grinned at him, then launched into details about how his career was going. He’d won a surprising number of awards and accolades for such a short time period, enough to impress even Mycroft just a little.  
  
“You’ve given up on your previous... hobby, I hope?” Mycroft asked, after congratulating him.  
  
Jim bit his lip, looking a bit coy. “Mostly.”  
  
“Mostly?” Mycroft repeated, taking a bite of the eggs the waiter had set in front of him.  
  
“I did arrange for a little something a few days ago,” Jim replied. “Just to distract Sherlock.”  
  
“Why would you need to ‘distract Sherlock’?” Mycroft asked warily.  
  
“When he’s not on a case, he gets bored,” Jim answered. “And when he’s bored, he comes barging into my office to pester me about the various things he considers me responsible for. Sometimes he follows me around. As fun as it is to play with him when he’s in one of those moods, I didn’t want him showing up while you’re here.”  
  
“Aren’t you concerned that he might show up to pester you about _this_ crime?” Mycroft said mildly.  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. “By my estimation, it will take him at least another eight days to work out that I was involved. He’s surprisingly predictable about these things.”  
  
“You’ve distracted him in this way before, then?”  
  
“Only a few times,” Jim replied. He snickered. “He always works out it’s me, but he never has any proof. It drives him _insane_.”  
  
Mycroft frowned. “I don’t suppose you know what his brother thinks of all this,” he said, imagining what he himself would have done if Sherlock had started obsessing over someone in such a fashion.  
  
Jim laughed. “Oh, I don’t think he knows what to think,” he replied. “But he did have me abducted and taken to a mysterious warehouse several months ago.” He smiled fondly.  
  
Mycroft held back a sigh. “What did he do once he had you?”  
  
“Well, he had me tied to a chair, and then he loomed over me asking all sorts of questions about what I wanted with Sherlock. It was all very _exciting_.”  
  
“What did you tell him?” Mycroft asked. He knew it couldn’t have been a complete disaster, or Jim wouldn’t be sitting there having breakfast with him.  
  
“I told him that I didn’t want anything with Sherlock,” Jim replied. “Sherlock is the one following me, not the other way around.” He bit a piece off of his bacon. “And then I asked him out on a date.”  
  
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
“Yes, that’s exactly what he did,” Jim said, pointing at him with a half-eaten piece of toast. “You two really are surprisingly similar.”  
  
Mycroft just continued eating his breakfast.  
  
When they were finished, Jim took him to his office and showed him around. They didn’t stay long, but Jim did make a point of showing him each and every thing he’d achieved that year.  
  
Afterwards, Jim took him to a few of his “crime scenes”, filling him in on what he’d done to catch Sherlock’s attention, as well as what Sherlock had been doing for the police. It seemed that his obsession with Jim aside, Sherlock was actually doing fairly well.  
  
Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure whether he should be pleased or worried that Sherlock’s drug habit had been replaced with a mild stalking habit, but he saw no reason to intervene at the moment.  
  
After they had finished dinner, Jim brought Mycroft back to his flat. “You’re the only one I’ve ever shown this place to,” he said. “My official address is miles away.”  
  
Mycroft frowned. “You never bring anyone home with you?” he asked, taking in the expensive, yet fairly tasteful surroundings. Several obviously stolen paintings decorated the walls, and on closer inspection Mycroft determined that the furniture was likely stolen as well. There was a single picture frame on one of the side tables, containing the photo Jim had taken of Mycroft in the museum a year earlier.  
  
“Oh, I have plenty of sex, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jim replied. “I just don’t bring anyone here. I can’t have Sherlock finding out where I really live, now, can I?”  
  
“That’s probably wise,” Mycroft agreed.  
  
They fell into conversation for a while, and it eventually grew late. Mycroft stood up to leave.  
  
“Where are you going?” Jim asked.  
  
“To check into a hotel,” Mycroft answered.  
  
“You could stay here,” Jim said. Before Mycroft could object, he quickly added: “I have a spare bedroom, if you’re still worried about being _appropriate_.”  
  
Mycroft hesitated. Staying with Jim didn’t seem like an especially good idea, but it was getting late. Between the full day he’d just had and his previous trip to 1999, he was more than ready to fall into bed and sleep. “Thank you,” he replied, already fighting a yawn.  
  
Jim blinked at him. “You... really?” He grinned, clapping his hands together. “You’re really staying the night?”  
  
“Only in the most appropriate possible sense,” Mycroft said.  
  
“Naturally,” Jim replied. He clasped Mycroft’s hand and pulled him down the hallway. “Here, I’ll show you the room.”  
  
Said room had the same style of the rest of the flat. There were stolen paintings on the walls, a large stolen bed in the middle of the room, and a small stolen table beside it. The bed linens were blue and obviously high quality, matching the curtains over the two windows. There was a small closet in the corner, though he didn’t bother to look inside. A photo of an aloof Sherlock glared out from a picture frame on the bedside table. Mycroft picked up the photo, then glanced at Jim.  
  
“What? I thought you would like it,” Jim said, fidgeting a little. “ _Do_ you like it?”  
  
Mycroft set the photo down on the table. If it had been a wall of photos of Sherlock, he’d have been concerned, but a single framed photo meant for him didn’t seem worth getting upset about. “It’s a fine room.”  
  
“I thought so,” Jim replied. He walked to the doorway, stopping and looking back before he actually went through it. “You won’t leave before I wake up, will you?”  
  
“No,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Good.” Jim closed the door behind him.  
  
Mycroft didn’t even bother to remove his clothes. He took off his shoes, lay down on top of the bed, and fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.  
  
He awoke to the smell of coffee the next morning. He made his hair as neat as he could without a brush, straightened his clothes, then made his way to the kitchen. He found Jim, already dressed reading an article about an “amazing ship theft” in the paper. There was a photo of a giant cruise ship lying upside down in the middle of a meadow on the front page.  
  
“Is that what you did to distract Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.  
  
Jim smirked. “Well, I had to make it interesting if I wanted to keep him occupied, didn’t I?” He folded up the paper and held it out to Mycroft, accidentally knocking over his own cup of coffee in the process. The small amount of remaining coffee spilled onto Mycroft’s sleeve. “Oh, how careless of me.” He dabbed at the small stain with a napkin.  
  
“It’s quite all right,” Mycroft replied, though he was secretly somewhat irritated at having his only shirt damaged in such a way. He didn’t have the urge to stop for a shopping trip before going forward, so he would just have to live with it.  
  
Jim looked him over. “You can use my shower, you know. And my brush.” He pinched the stain on the sleeve. “I could take care of this while you’re at it.”  
  
Taking the hint about the current state of his hygiene, Mycroft decided that a shower wouldn't be such a bad idea. Jim watched him undress with a little too much enthusiasm, then left to clean the stain. By the time Mycroft was finished, Jim had managed a remarkable job of getting it out. The sleeve was still wet, but Mycroft put the shirt on anyway. It was more than time for him to leave.  
  
“Do you expect to still be living here next year?” he asked as he combed his hair into place.  
  
“Yes,” Jim replied, watching him from the doorway.  
  
When Mycroft was finished, they made their goodbyes. Jim promised to stay largely out of trouble, while Mycroft promised to return in a year’s time.  
  
Mycroft left the flat. After ensuring that Jim wasn’t following him, he went to the closest library for the next trip forward. Jim would have no way of knowing where he’d appear, and a quiet corner of library was a far more pleasant place to be than the stall of a men’s room.  
  
He set the device for six in the morning, one day short of a year in the future.  
  
 **2001**  
  
Mycroft wasted no time in returning to Jim’s flat. It was ridiculously early in the morning for a visit, but he had no doubt Jim wouldn't care in the slightest.  
  
Jim opened the door before Mycroft could even knock. “Good Morning,” he said, waving Mycroft into the flat. He looked Mycroft up and down, smiling a peculiar knowing smile, then began taking off Mycroft’s jacket.  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but allowed it. It was only his jacket. “Are we staying in today?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Jim replied, hanging the jacket on a coat hook. “But that’s not why I'm doing this.”  
  
Mycroft eyed him warily, but stood his ground. “It isn’t?”  
  
“No,” Jim replied, stalking back over to him. “I just need to check something.” He reached out and grabbed Mycroft’s arm, dabbing his fingers against the sleeve. “I knew it,” he said, clapping his hands together and spinning around excitedly. “Your shirt is still wet. It’s been a whole year and your shirt is still wet in the exact same place it was when I last saw you.”  
  
“I spilled water on myself this morning,” Mycroft lied.  
  
“I don’t believe you,” Jim replied, crossing his arms. “I can still smell the coffee and the stain remover.”  
  
Mycroft smiled at him. “What do you believe, then?”  
  
Jim looked far less certain of himself now. “I don’t know yet.” He frowned. “Sometimes I wonder if you even exist outside of my own head. If I didn’t have a picture of you, I’d think I was losing my mind.”  
  
“You aren’t,” Mycroft replied. “For one thing, I’ve met your coworkers.”  
  
“As if they count for anything,” Jim said, waving a hand dismissively. “No. This, this proves... _something_ ,” he added. He tapped his fingers together excitedly for a few seconds, then stopped. “But I suppose that doesn’t really matter right now. I’m sure you’d like to change into something else, if given the option?”  
  
“That would really depend on the ‘something else’,” Mycroft answered.  
  
“Obviously, I’m referring to bondage gear,” Jim replied, rolling his eyes. “No. Don’t worry. I only bought things I thought would fit your taste. They’re waiting in your room.”  
  
Mycroft hesitated for a moment. “Thank you,” he said eventually, walking down the hallway to the room he’d slept in either a day or a year earlier, depending on how one looked at it.  
  
Several objects had been added to the room since he’d last been there. A stolen bookshelf had been added to the collection of furniture, though there were fewer than a dozen books on the shelves. One of them was Sherlock’s ‘Science of Deduction’; another was a children’s physics book written by ‘Uncle Jim’. The rest were an odd assortment of crime-related books he didn’t bother to inspect more closely.  
  
A comb and a toothbrush sat on the bedside table. The closet was stocked with several suits that did in fact match his taste very closely, all of them sized to precisely correct measurements. There were also a number of ties, socks, and miscellaneous underthings, as well as a pair of pajamas and a second pair of shoes.  
  
Seeing no reason to shun Jim’s generosity, he changed into one of the suits, leaving the clothes he’d been wearing for the past several days folded neatly on the bed.  
  
When he was finished, he spent the rest of the day out in the city with Jim, hearing all about his research, his work as a children’s book author, and the various ways he had annoyed Sherlock over the previous year.  
  
Jim took a photo of the two of them together before Mycroft left.  
  
 **2002**  
  
The photo was on the wall when Mycroft returned, next to a framed newspaper article. ‘Consulting Detective and Renowned Physicist Solve Baffling Series of Murders.’ The article had a photo of Jim with his arm around Sherlock, smiling charmingly while Sherlock gritted his teeth and refused to look at the camera.  
  
“You would not _believe_ how fun that one was,” Jim said, smirking gleefully.  
  
“How did you even come to be on the case in the first place?” Mycroft asked, feeling just a hint of suspicion.  
  
“I had nothing to do with the murder, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jim replied. “But after reading certain details about the third murder in the paper, I realized that the victims must have been killed in one of our labs. I contacted the police immediately, of course.” He shook his head. “Sherlock then decided to accuse _me_ of the crime. The Inspector in charge of the case questioned me for over twelve hours.”  
  
“How did you convince him of your innocence?”  
  
“The real killer struck again while I was being interviewed,” Jim replied. “The Inspector was very apologetic about the whole thing. He accepted my offer of assistance right away.” Jim paused. “You know, his team really doesn’t like Sherlock very much. They were ready to kick him off of the case entirely after that mistake.”  
  
“Why didn’t they?”  
  
Jim smiled warmly. “Oh, I convinced them that it was quite all right. Sherlock was only doing his best to catch a murderer, after all. We couldn’t very well hold that against him, could we? No, I insisted we solve the whole thing together.”  
  
“How magnanimous of you,” Mycroft replied. “I’m sure Sherlock was quite grateful,” he added, imagining Sherlock sulking in a corner even as Jim defended him.  
  
“Yes, he was!” Jim replied. “He made such wonderful faces every time I made it clear how desperately his help was needed. I’m just a lowly physicist, after all. I don’t know anything about the big bad world of _crime_.”  
  
Mycroft only sighed.  
  
 **2003**  
  
The next time Mycroft arrived, he was immediately presented with a crown and scepter. “I thought you might like something special.”  
  
Mycroft took the scepter, but put a hand up to stop Jim from putting the crown on his head. “Please tell me these aren’t what I think they are,” Mycroft said, though he already knew very well that they were.  
  
“Of course they’re what you think they are,” Jim replied. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Sherlock was getting bored. They hadn’t given him a case in months, and he was starting to lose interest in following me around.”  
  
“Is he aware that you committed the theft?”  
  
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” Jim put the crown on his head. “I’ll return them both before he figures it out. Would you rather Sherlock returned to _boring_ , self-destructive habits?”  
  
“No.”  
  
 **2004**  
  
“I don’t know if you have television in Neverland -- or wherever it is that you go when you aren’t here -- but if you do, you can watch me in my new series,” Jim said, gesturing to a poster of himself and several children, surrounding by science equipment.  
  
“You’re a children’s television presenter now?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“Yes, though not exclusively,” Jim replied. “I’ve decided to be a ‘consulting physicist’.”  
  
“What does that entail?”  
  
“It entails helping people with their immediate physics-related problems, without having to sit around writing and reviewing endless dull papers no one cares about.”  
  
“Are there many people with ‘immediate physics-related problems’ for you to solve?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“More than you might think,” Jim answered. “There are all sorts of strange, interesting projects out there.”  
  
“But none interesting enough to capture your attention full time?”  
  
Jim shook his head. “Too much red tape and paperwork.”  
  
 **2005**  
  
“I don’t suppose you’re going to admit that the nick on your face is the same one you got while shaving the last time you were here,” Jim said.  
  
“How could it be?” Mycroft replied.  
  
“It’s in the exact same spot.”  
  
“I’m careless about that spot on my face."  
  
 **2006**  
  
“I’m twenty-six,” Jim said, sitting next to Mycroft on the bed. “I don’t suppose that’s old enough for you, yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Well, I’m sure I’ll catch up to you eventually,” Jim replied. “It’s not like _you’re_ getting any older.”  
  
“I really don’t understand what you’re implying.”  
  
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Jim replied. He frowned. “You know, Sherlock’s brother looks more and more like you every year. It’s uncanny.”  
  
“What are you suggesting?”  
  
Jim held up his hands in frustration. “I don’t know.”  
  
 **2007**  
  
“I told Sherlock the truth about that first theft.”  
  
Mycroft nearly choked on his steak. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”  
  
“Oh, I believe you did,” Jim said pleasantly.  
  
“What exactly did you tell him?”  
  
“The truth,” Jim repeated. “That the crime was actually committed by a nameless man who looks exactly like his brother. One who can appear and disappear out of thin air at will, won't tell me anything about himself, and never ages.” Jim tilted his head. “He didn’t believe a word of it. No idea why.”  
  
 **2008**  
  
Mycroft knew he was in trouble from the moment he walked in the door and saw Jim’s smug grin. He didn’t find out why until midway through breakfast, however.  
  
“You know,” Jim said conversationally, “I saw a watch _just_ like yours only last month.”  
  
Mycroft stiffened. “Did you?”  
  
“Well, not a physical one,” Jim replied. “It was more of a schematic. Part of this interesting American project they tried to recruit me for. Something about _time travel_.”  
  
Mycroft’s mouth went dry. “I take it you turned them down?”  
  
“Naturally,” Jim answered. “If I went bouncing around different timelines, I’d miss our little meetings, wouldn’t I?” He took a bite of sausage, chewing thoughtfully. “Though, I have to admit the idea does sound exciting.” He laughed. “I can only imagine how fun it would be to go back in time and _wow_ someone with my _amazing_ future knowledge. It’s very tempting, don’t you think?” He stared Mycroft right in the eyes, smiling like the cat who’d caught the canary.  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat. “It doesn't seem worth the effort just to accomplish something so trivial,” he replied.  
  
“What are you trying to accomplish, then?” Jim asked bluntly.  
  
“I don’t know what you believe the project you’re referring to has to do with me,” Mycroft replied. “However, my goal has always been exactly what I told you.”  
  
“To keep me out of trouble, then?” Jim asked. “Or to keep Sherlock out of trouble?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
“What did we do the first time around?” Jim asked. He frowned. “Or the other few times around. You had future knowledge the first several times you visited me, which means you must have--”  
  
“I really don’t know what you mean,” Mycroft interrupted.  
  
“Come _on_ ,” Jim replied. “I’ve already figured it out. There’s no reason not to tell me.”  
  
“Your life is going well the way it is,” Mycroft said. “I don’t see why a theoretical alternate life that ended in a pointless, horrific tragedy should matter to you.”  
  
Jim went quiet, staying that way for the rest of breakfast. He didn’t bring up the subject again at any point during the rest of the day.  
  
 **The Next Morning**  
  
“I already know you’re jumping a year into the future,” Jim complained. “There’s no reason you can’t just do it here.”  
  
“What does it matter what I’m doing or where, if you’re so confident you already know what it is?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“You really can’t see why I’d been interested in seeing you _leap forward in time_?” Jim asked, staring at him in pure disbelief. “I know you aren’t going to let me come with you, but you could at least let me see it happen.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. There seemed to be little point in pretending any longer. It wouldn’t make Jim any less aware of the truth than he already was. He supposed it could be a trick or trap of some kind, but given that Jim had made no attempt to take or tamper with the device while he slept, he was inclined to think it wasn’t.  
  
It was just difficult to give up his aura of mystery after holding on to it for so long.  
  
“All right,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Jim blinked at him. “Wait, really? I’m finally going to get to see you disappear?” He gave an excited whoop, then jumped up and down.  
  
“Yes.” Mycroft sat down on the sofa. “Make certain that there’s nothing in this spot when I arrive next year.”  
  
“Fine,” Jim replied. He stood in front of Mycroft, staring at him intently.  
  
Mycroft set the device forward one year. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, pressing the activation button.  
  
Jim looked shocked for several seconds, then waved a hand right through the spot where Mycroft was sitting. Time sped up as he walked away, and Mycroft was soon traveling too fast to see minor changes occurring in the flat.  
  
 **2009**  
  
A few seconds before the end of the trip, time once again slowed down. Mycroft saw Jim return to roughly the same spot he’d been in earlier, rubbing his hands in anticipation.  
  
His eyes widened just as Mycroft heard the whooshing noise around him disappear.  
  
Jim grinned at him, breathing slightly hard. “That. Was. Amazing.” He started patting Mycroft’s chest, arms, and shoulders as though to make sure he was really there.  
  
Mycroft felt an odd sort of relief at Jim’s enthusiasm. He didn’t like to admit it, but he’d already grown more than used to Jim thinking he was utterly incredible. The thought of becoming an ordinary man in Jim’s estimation pained him greatly. “Was it?” he said mildly.  
  
“No,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “I mean, all you did was _travel through time_ right in front of me.” He shook his head, still smiling, then pulled Mycroft up off of the sofa and out the front door.  
  
2009's news took Mycroft completely by surprise.  
  
“Sherlock has a new friend you'd probably like to know about,” Jim told him.  
  
Mycroft looked up sharply. “It’s not a man named John Watson, is it?”  
  
“Yes,” Jim replied. He frowned. “Was he dangerous to Sherlock in the original timeline? I’m fairly certain he killed the first suspect they pursued together.”  
  
“He wasn’t dangerous to Sherlock, no,” Mycroft answered. “I merely wasn’t expecting things to match up so closely after so much time has passed. You say you believe he killed someone?”  
  
“A lunatic cabbie,” Jim replied. “He had some kind of terminal illness and decided to take it out on his passengers. He'd shoot them in the head, take all their valuables, then dump the bodies in the river. All to leave something behind for his family.” He clucked his tongue. “He could have at least picked a less boring way to go about it. I was surprised Sherlock even bothered.”  
  
“It was probably the unusual combination of victims that caught his attention this time,” Mycroft said, not knowing whether to be worried or relieved.  
  
“This time?” Jim asked. “What caught his attention last time?”  
  
Mycroft shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He paused. “Have you met John?”  
  
Jim snickered. “Yes,” he replied. “He can never decide whether he likes or hates me. I’m certain he believes Sherlock’s theory about the things I’m responsible for, but I’m always so _pleasant_ to both him and Sherlock. Even when Sherlock is in one of his stalking moods.” Jim took a bite of his toast, smirking. “Poor Dr. Watson comes trailing along behind him now, trying to convince him to leave me alone.”  
  
It might not have been exactly what he would have hoped for, but Mycroft supposed it would have to do.  
  
 **2010**  
  
“There is no way that you are more than a year or two older than Mycroft Holmes at this point,” Jim said.  
  
“I don’t see your point,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Jim bit his lip. “Aren’t you close enough to the point in time you left? Why do you have to keep going?”  
  
“I don’t belong here.”  
  
“You don’t belong there, either,” Jim pointed out. “Technically, you belong in an entirely different universe. Another year shouldn’t make any difference.”  
  
“...I need to see what happens to Sherlock.”  
  
“There’s no reason you can’t see it the normal way.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. He was tempted to give in, but 2011 seemed to be the magic year, the one none of them could go beyond without meeting certain doom. If he stayed the full year, he knew he’d spend every single day worrying about Sherlock’s safety. “I have nothing to do with myself here.”  
  
“You have nothing to do with yourself there, either,” Jim replied. “There’s another _you_ taking up your spot. You could always devote your full attention to your brother.”  
  
Mycroft laughed harshly. “Yes, but the fact is that _I_ would certainly notice someone stalking Sherlock, especially if that someone happened to look just like me. I have no desire to confront my other self.”  
  
“But don’t you ever intend to _see_ the brother you’re going through all this effort to save?” Jim asked, banging his fork down on the table.  
  
Mycroft looked down, pausing a moment before responding. “He scarcely allowed me to see him before. I’ve been forced to content myself with mere knowledge of his safety for years. As long as he’s alive and happy, that’s all I care about.”  
  
It wasn’t entirely true -- in fact, his chest burned as he thought of never talking to Sherlock personally again. However, he was also well aware that there was nothing he could do about it. The Sherlock he was saving didn’t even know him, and it would just have to stay that way.  
  
Mycroft glanced up at Jim, who was watching him silently, frowning.  
  
Mycroft forced a smile onto his face. “Why don’t we talk about something more pleasant?”  
  
 **2011**  
  
Mycroft was relieved to learn that Sherlock was doing ‘as well as ever’, though he had to ask Jim the same question a half-dozen times before he truly believed it.  
  
If he’d been a little less distracted with joy over Sherlock’s continued survival, he might have found Jim’s insistence that they visit his office that morning a little odd. He would have given a little more thought to the way Jim surreptitiously checked his watch as they arrived, as well as Jim’s insistence that they sit in an unusual part of the office as they conversed.  
  
However, he didn’t think much of any of these things until he heard John Watson’s voice echoing down the hallway outside the office, and by then it was much too late.  
  
“Look, I just don’t think Jim would waste his time tampering with your sock index,” John said. “I know you think he’s some kind of master thief, but--”  
  
“I don’t _think_ he’s a thief,” Sherlock interrupted. “I _know_ he’s a thief. And he didn’t just tamper with my sock index, he--”  
  
“Yes, I know,” John replied, sighing in resignation. “He left a coded message only you would recognize.”  
  
Mycroft looked frantically around the room for some means of escape, but there was none. There was only one door, and the windows didn’t open. He was too far from the door to lock it before Sherlock could enter. “You arranged for this to happen,” he hissed at Jim.  
  
“Did I?” Jim’s face took on an overly innocent expression.  
  
The door swung open before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock storming into the room. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it when he caught sight of Mycroft. His brow furrowed, eyes darting all over the place in confusion.  
  
“Sorry, Jim,” John said, wandering in after him. “I tried to tell him--” He trailed off, suddenly seeming to take in what he was seeing. “ _Mycroft_? What are you doing here?”


	9. A Journey Completed

“Oh, is that your name?” Jim glanced from Mycroft over to the two men. “He’s never actually told me.”  
  
Mycroft pressed his fingertips to his forehead, but didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say that Sherlock would believe, but if he kept silent, Sherlock would hopefully come up with some kind of explanation on his own.  
  
“What are you talking about?” John asked Jim, looking perplexed. “You’ve known Mycroft longer than I have.”  
  
“This man isn’t Mycroft,” Sherlock said, looking slightly unsettled. His eyes scanned Mycroft’s face and body, occasionally stopping to focus on a particular area for a moment before continuing onward.  
  
John laughed. “What are you talking about?” he asked, gesturing at Mycroft. “It’s obviously--”  
  
“He isn’t Mycroft!” Sherlock said sharply, now visibly disturbed.  
  
“Of course he is.” John glanced at Mycroft. “Right?”  
  
Mycroft only sighed. He glared at Jim, who held up his hands innocently in response.  
  
“Right?” John repeated, starting to look mildly confused himself.  
  
“It’s not Mycroft,” Sherlock repeated, taking a few steps forward. He pointed down at Mycroft’s stomach. “He’s too thin. We saw Mycroft only last month, and there is no way my brother could have lost that much weight in such a short period of time.”  
  
John shrugged. “It’s not impossible.”  
  
Sherlock waved a hand irritably. “That’s not the only thing that’s wrong with him.” He pointed a finger at Mycroft’s cheek. “The lines on his face are different.”  
  
John squinted at Mycroft’s face. “Different how?”  
  
“They’re...” Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “Some of them are deeper. Others aren’t deep enough.”  
  
“And from that you can definitively conclude this isn’t Mycroft?” John replied, skepticism clear in his tone.  
  
“Yes. Look, I’ll prove it,” Sherlock said. He turned back to Mycroft. “Take off your jacket.”  
  
“Sherlock--” John began, looking somewhat uncomfortable.  
  
“It’s all right, John,” Mycroft replied, getting to his feet.  
  
Sherlock took a step back, visibly wary. “How do you know his name?”  
  
Mycroft didn’t reply. He removed his jacket and silently handed it to Sherlock, then sat back down.  
  
Jim clucked his tongue. “Why don’t you ever listen to _me_ when I want you to take your clothes off?”  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock gave Jim a disgusted look, then took hold of Mycroft’s arm, pushing up the sleeve.  
  
“What are you doing?” John asked.  
  
“Mycroft has a mark on his left arm, from--” Sherlock stopped, staring at the thick, wide scar running up the side of Mycroft’s arm. He poked at the scar several times, as though not entirely believing it was real, then swallowed. “From an injury he received rescuing me from a tree when I was five.”  
  
“Which he has,” John said, sounding like he was starting to lose his patience. “Because _he’s Mycroft_.”  
  
Sherlock dropped Mycroft’s arm, then shoved the jacket back into his arms. Mycroft pulled his sleeve back down, setting the jacket down in his lap.  
  
Sherlock pulled out his mobile and held it to his ear.  
  
“What are you doing?” John asked.  
  
“I’m calling--” Sherlock cut off, then smiled broadly, speaking into the phone. “Mycroft! It’s great to hear your voice. Here, say something to John.” He held up the phone to John’s ear.  
  
“Mycroft?” John asked, sounding utterly bewildered. There was a short silence, broken only by the muffled sound of the other Mycroft’s voice coming from the phone. John blinked in surprise. “Wait, that’s really--!”  
  
Sherlock pulled the phone back and pressed it against his ear. “That’s all I needed... No, everything is fine... It doesn’t really matter what we’re doing. Bye!” He pressed a button, then shoved the phone back in his pocket.  
  
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, imagining what his reaction would have been if he had received a call like that from Sherlock.  
  
Sure enough, Sherlock’s phone rang a few seconds later.  
  
Sherlock put a hand in his pocket and silenced it without looking. He gave Mycroft a smug smile. “Now that we’ve established that you aren’t Mycroft, I think it’s time you told us who you really are.”  
  
“I don’t see how that follows,” Mycroft replied mildly.  
  
Sherlock’s face lost some of its smugness. “What do you mean? I’ve _proven_ you aren’t Mycroft.”  
  
“I never claimed that I was,” Mycroft replied. “Jim has told me I bear a strong resemblance to your brother, but that’s hardly a crime, is it? It certainly doesn’t put me under any obligation to tell you anything about myself.”  
  
Sherlock stood up straight, face filling with outrage. “But you-- but he--!”  
  
Jim snickered. “You’re never going to get anything out of him that way. I’ve known him for _years_ , and he’s never willingly told me anything.”  
  
Sherlock’s head snapped in his direction. “What do you mean you’ve known him for--” Sherlock cut off, eyes going wide in shock. He stared ahead of him, unseeing, lost in his own mind. “...committed by a man who isn’t Mycroft, but looks just like Mycroft,” he muttered, tone full of utter disbelief.  
  
“Sherlock?” John asked, waving a hand in front of his face.  
  
Sherlock shoved his hand away, turning to Jim. “No. You were making it up. You had to be.”  
  
“I _told_ you,” Jim complained. “I told you exactly who did it and you didn’t believe me.”  
  
“I didn’t believe you because your explanation was ridiculous,” Sherlock replied, pacing back and forth. “It still _is_ ridiculous. Why did you commit that first theft? _Why?_ ”  
  
“If you intend to accuse me of having committed a crime, I do hope you have evidence to support your accusation,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Jim laughed. “Oh, no. He never has actual evidence when he comes here.”  
  
Sherlock gritted his teeth, seething at the both of them. “You won’t get away with this. Either of you. I’ll find something--”  
  
“Even if you do find something, the statute of limitations on that simple act of vandalism has long since passed,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Sherlock turned away, looking ready to break something.  
  
John cleared his throat. “Maybe we should go,” he said. “These two are obviously busy with something, and--”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms. “At least tell me who you are.”  
  
“No,” Mycroft replied, keeping a smirk from his face only with extreme effort. He knew he was enjoying himself more than he really should be, but he couldn’t entirely help it. He’d never imagined he would actually be able to speak to Sherlock again, let alone have the opportunity to tease him with an unsolvable puzzle. It almost made the inevitable problems their interaction would cause seem worth it.  
  
Sherlock fumed silently for a moment, then walked right over to Mycroft and yanked a hair from his head.  
  
Mycroft winced, rubbing his head. He didn’t ask why Sherlock had done it; the answer was obvious to him.  
  
It wasn’t so obvious to John, however. “Sherlock! What are you doing?”  
  
Sherlock took a piece of paper from Jim’s desk and wrapped the hair in it, marking the paper with an ‘X’. He then plucked out one of his own hairs and wrapped it in another piece of paper, marking that one with an ‘S’. He handed both of the folded pieces of paper to John. “Go to Barts and ask Molly to compare these against Mycroft’s DNA. Tell her I need it done as soon as possible.”  
  
“How am I supposed to get Mycroft’s DNA?” John asked.  
  
“I have a sample in my room. It’s labeled.”  
  
“Why do you have a sample of Mycroft’s--”  
  
“Just do it, John.”  
  
John glanced from Sherlock to Mycroft, then to Jim. “Will the three of you be all right while I’m gone?”  
  
“Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll have tons of fun!” Jim replied cheerfully.  
  
John didn’t seem reassured, but he nodded anyway. “Right. I’ll just be going, then.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.  
  
“I really don’t know what you hope to accomplish with this,” Mycroft said.  
  
“I intend to find out who you are,” Sherlock replied, sitting down across from the two men.  
  
Mycroft turned to Jim. “Are you certain this is how you wish to spend the one day out of the year you get to see me?”  
  
Jim tilted his head. “You don’t seriously still intend on leaving tomorrow morning, do you?”  
  
Sherlock glared from Jim to Mycroft. “What do you mean, ‘leave’? You can’t leave before I know who you are.”  
  
“Oh, but I can,” Mycroft replied, giving him a friendly smile.  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Jim spoke first. “Threaten to go on a crime spree.”  
  
Mycroft hid his face in his hands.  
  
Sherlock turned toward Jim. “What?”  
  
“Say you’ll go on a crime spree with me if he leaves,” Jim elaborated.  
  
Sherlock turned up his nose. “I’m not going on a crime spree with _you_ ,” he declared.  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. “Then threaten to go on a crime spree of your own. It doesn’t really matter.”  
  
“Why would he care if I--” Sherlock eyed Mycroft’s face.  
  
Mycroft quickly dropped his hands, giving Sherlock his most indifferent look. However, it was far too late.  
  
“You _would_ care if I went on a crime spree, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock said. “Interesting.” He smirked at Mycroft. “Fine. Tell me who you are, or I’ll turn to a life of crime.”  
  
“No,” Mycroft replied. He held up a hand to stop Sherlock from interrupting. “I won’t tell you who I am. However, I will stay longer than I had initially planned.”  
  
“How much longer?” Jim asked, clapping his hands together with glee.  
  
“Indefinitely,” Mycroft replied. “It looks like I will be imposing on your hospitality somewhat longer than expected.”  
  
“He’s staying with _you_?” Sherlock asked, an expression of horror covering his face.  
  
“He _lives_ with me,” Jim replied, looking very smug indeed.  
  
Mycroft nearly spoke up to say that he didn’t live with Jim, but he quickly realized that for all intents and purposes, he did live with the man. All of his worldly belongings were currently in his room in Jim’s flat. He also had no particular intention of arranging for somewhere else to live now that his stay had been extended; he wasn’t one for putting in extra effort without a good reason.  
  
Sherlock’s face took on a look of mild disgust. “Please tell me you two aren’t... ugh...” He shuddered.  
  
“Not _yet_ ,” Jim replied, giving Mycroft a flirtatious smile.  
  
Mycroft didn’t bother to correct him. “Did you have anything planned for the rest of the day?” he asked instead.  
  
“Well,” Jim began, “I _was_ planning to take you to the planetarium.”  
  
“The planetarium you broke into a month ago?” Sherlock interrupted.  
  
“Oh, don’t be silly, Sherlock,” Jim replied. “Why would I need to break into the planetarium when I’m allowed in whenever I like?”  
  
“To commit a theft and leave me an impossible puzzle to solve,” Sherlock replied, glaring at him.  
  
“Please. You always think I’m responsible for every _difficulty_ that comes your way.” Jim paused. “And really, that puzzle was only ‘impossible to solve’ for someone completely lacking a basic knowledge of the solar system.”  
  
Sherlock’s face twitched. “Useless information.”  
  
In the end, Jim did take Mycroft to the planetarium. Sherlock followed them there, hovering around while Jim showed Mycroft the children’s exhibit he’d been a part of creating. Jim’s face was plastered all over the room, and several areas of the exhibit featured videos of Jim explaining the concepts in simple, entertaining terms.  
  
Jim also apparently had a hand in creating the interactive puzzles scattered about the room. “Science is boring if you don’t get to _do_ anything.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and made irritated noises every time someone asked Jim for a photo or an autograph.  
  
Afterwards, Jim brought him to the part of the building where the theft had occurred a month earlier, a section of the planetarium dedicated to historical astronomical artifacts. “I had nothing to do with it, of course. But from what I _heard_ , the theft occurred just after midnight. All of the pieces along that wall were taken.” Jim gestured toward the north wall.  
  
“I see they’ve been returned,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Recovered,” Sherlock corrected. “I recovered them from hidden locations all over London.”  
  
“Oh?” Mycroft replied. He smiled, knowing that Sherlock would never be able to resist an opportunity to show off, no matter who the audience happened to be.  
  
Indeed, Sherlock immediately began an explanation of the message that had been left at the crime scene, and how the locations of the missing items had each related to one of the planets of the solar system. “The ninth one was almost impossible to find. The location was matched with an obscure celestial body instead of a real planet.”  
  
“For the last time: Pluto isn’t obscure,” Jim replied. “ _Children_ know about Pluto.”  
  
“It isn’t on the official list of planets,” Sherlock retorted.  
  
Sherlock followed them to dinner after the planetarium, forcing Jim to ask the restaurant for a third chair to be added to their table.  
  
“Are you going to invite yourself along on all of our dates?” Jim asked him. “Because while I might be up for that sort of thing, I don’t think he is.”  
  
“This isn’t a date,” Sherlock answered, scowling at him.  
  
“Well, obviously, it isn’t one _now_ ,” Jim said.  
  
Sherlock and Jim spent most of dinner bickering, while Mycroft enjoyed his food quietly. Toward the end of the meal, Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his pocket.  
  
“You’ll have to go outside to answer that,” Jim said with a smirk.  
  
“I don’t have to do anything,” Sherlock replied, putting the phone to his ear. “John.” He paused, listening. “I see. Interesting. I’ll see you back at the flat.” He hung up, putting the phone back in his pocket, then looked at Mycroft intently. “Your DNA is a perfect match for Mycroft’s, and both of yours are a familial match for mine.”  
  
“Is that so?” Mycroft asked, taking a sip of wine.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “But then, you already knew that.”  
  
“What makes you so certain of that?”  
  
“You committed those thefts all those years ago just to leave me a message,” Sherlock replied. “Obviously, you already knew I was your brother, and that’s why you were trying to communicate with me. Nothing else makes sense.”  
  
“I haven’t admitted to committing any thefts,” Mycroft pointed out, hoping to sidetrack him.  
  
But Sherlock didn’t take the bait. “Does Mycroft know about you? Why weren’t you raised with us?”  
  
Mycroft sighed. He’d spent a large amount of the day trying to come up with something plausible to tell Sherlock -- or better yet, to arrange for Sherlock to deduce on his own -- but he’d been unable to come up with anything that could survive the inevitable scrutiny of his other self. “As far as I know, your brother is unaware of my existence. And I would prefer not to talk about my past.”  
  
“You can’t just refuse to tell me anything,” Sherlock said sharply. “What’s your name? Where did you grow up? It can’t have been very far from us, and you clearly went to a similar school... You were educated to at least the same level as Mycroft, and you did it within the same period, but somehow never encountered him in all that time.”  
  
“I kept a low profile.”  
  
“Why didn’t you contact me directly?” Sherlock asked. He swallowed. “Was the message you left a _test_ of some kind, a test that I had to pass before I could see you?”  
  
“I saw no reason to interfere in your life,” Mycroft replied, hoping to avoid the issue of the message he’d left entirely. “Even if you’d wanted to see me, I wouldn’t have been able to stay for long.”  
  
“What do you mean ‘if I’d wanted to see you’? Obviously, I’d have wanted to see you.”  
  
“Oh? How often do you bother to see the brother you grew up with?” Mycroft asked, unable to completely keep the bitterness he felt from bleeding into his tone. “Willingly, on your own terms?”  
  
“That’s completely different,” Sherlock replied, voice heated. “Mycroft is _boring_. Mycroft has never committed a crime in his life, and he would never vandalize a museum just to leave me a message.”  
  
Jim burst out laughing.  
  
“What? What’s so funny?” Sherlock demanded, face bearing the hurt, paranoid look it always did when he feared someone was having a laugh at his expense.  
  
“Nothing,” Jim replied, pressing a napkin to his mouth. He snickered a few more times before mostly managing to hold his mouth still. “Really, it’s nothing.”  
  
Sherlock glared at him, then turned back to Mycroft. “ _You_ gave me an escape from the mind-numbing boredom of everything _Mycroft_ tried to force on me.”  
  
Mycroft winced. “I’m sure he had only your best interests at heart.”  
  
“More like _his_ best interests,” Sherlock muttered.  
  
“Yes. Well,” Mycroft glanced at his ‘watch’. “It’s getting rather late. Perhaps we should continue this another time.”  
  
Sherlock sat up straight. “Where do you intend to go?”  
  
“Home,” Mycroft replied, ignoring the grin the word elicited from Jim. “Today has been very tiring.”  
  
“Where exactly do the two of you live?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Don’t answer that,” Jim said quickly. “If you tell him where we live, he’ll never leave us alone.”  
  
Mycroft shrugged at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock glared at the both of them. “Fine. If you won’t tell me where you live, at least give me your phone number.”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t have a phone,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“What do you mean you don’t have a--” Sherlock’s eyes roamed over Mycroft’s body, clearly searching for a phone he could yank from a pocket to disprove Mycroft’s statement. There was, of course, nothing to find.  
  
“I could always get you one,” Jim said helpfully, gently stroking Mycroft’s hand on top of the table. “Now that you’ll be staying longer.”  
  
Sherlock made a face. “Stop flirting with my brother. It’s disgusting.”  
  
“I don’t see how you have the right to complain. It’s only because of me that you even got to meet him,” Jim said. “You should be a little more grateful.”  
  
Sherlock ignored him. “When will I see you again?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Mycroft replied, internally marveling at having _Sherlock_ desperate to see _him_ for once in their adult lives. “Don’t you have cases to attend to?”  
  
“Nothing currently,” Sherlock replied. “What about tomorrow?”  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“Can I see you tomorrow?” Sherlock said, through gritted teeth.  
  
“No,” Jim replied, before Mycroft could say anything.  
  
“What do you mean ‘no’?” Sherlock asked. “I was asking _him_ , not you.”  
  
“I was supposed to spend all of today with him, before you got in the way,” Jim answered. “I’m still owed a full day with him.”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock replied. “You can have him tomorrow, but I get him the day after that. A full day without _you_.”  
  
“Fine by me,” Jim agreed.  
  
Mycroft considered speaking up on his own behalf, but found that he didn’t have much of a stake in the matter one way or the other. It wasn’t as though he had anything else to do with himself, and it was actually somewhat flattering to watch the two fighting over who would get to spend time with him.  
  
For the next few minutes, Sherlock and Jim fought tooth and nail over who would get to see Mycroft and when over the next two weeks. Sherlock unsuccessfully tried to claim the time Mycroft would spend sleeping in Jim’s flat as time spent with Jim to get more days in his favor. Jim spent most of the time trying to fit his time with Mycroft around his work and appearance schedule, as well as get Mycroft to himself on New Year’s Eve.  
  
In the end, the two worked out an extremely elaborate schedule involving Mycroft spending multiple half-days with each of them, attending John’s New Year’s Eve party with Jim, and sleeping at 221b instead of Jim’s flat for five of the next fourteen days.  
  
“Shouldn’t you ask John’s opinion before agreeing to let me sleep at your flat for several days?” Mycroft asked, more to remind Sherlock of his manners than out of any hope of it actually occurring.  
  
“John won’t mind,” Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively.  
  
And with that, dinner came to an end. After a certain amount of effort to ensure Sherlock wasn’t following them, Jim brought Mycroft home to the flat. Jim stretched his arms, then collapsed on the sofa.  
  
Mycroft stood nearby, arms crossed.  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. “Oh, please tell me you aren’t still annoyed that I arranged for Sherlock to see you.”  
  
“It was very unwise,” Mycroft replied. “Now that Sherlock knows, his _brother_ is certain to learn of it as well.”  
  
“So, what?” Jim asked. “What exactly do you think he’ll do?”  
  
Mycroft had no idea. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what his own mindset would be upon learning he had an ‘identical twin’ he’d never known about, especially one who was showing interest in Sherlock. “A man who looks just like him is an obvious security threat.”  
  
Jim laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. If he hauls you away to a secret prison somewhere, I’ll just break you out again.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “You know, Sherlock would probably even help me do it.”  
  
Mycroft rubbed his face. “Yes. Well, hopefully it won’t come to that.”  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
The next ten days were some of the busiest of Mycroft’s life, international crises and time travel preparations included.  
  
Jim had given him a key to the flat, which Mycroft had accepted entirely for practicality’s sake. When Sherlock had found out, he’d forced a key to 221b on Mycroft as well. Mycroft had barely been able to hold back his laughter at Sherlock’s eagerness to allow him access to his flat, given the measures Sherlock taken to keep him out during the original timeline.  
  
Sherlock still hadn’t figured out anything about him, despite asking him endless questions about his past. Mycroft always turned the questions back on him, knowing that if he could get Sherlock talking about a previous case he’d worked on, he would be distracted for some time.  
  
Mycroft was coming to enjoy listening to Sherlock prattle on about the deductions he’d made, even though he himself could see them coming well before Sherlock actually got to them. He couldn’t help but appreciate Sherlock’s excitement, however. He was so _alive_ when he spoke about his work.  
  
John was still bewildered by his existence, but was as convinced of the brother story as Sherlock was, once he truly accepted that Mycroft was not the Mycroft he knew. He still accidentally referred to Mycroft by name every time Mycroft was with Sherlock, a problem not aided by Mycroft’s continued refusal to give another name for him to use.  
  
While Jim focused on taking Mycroft on ‘dates’, Sherlock generally brought him to crime scenes. Their first day together, it was scenes of previous crimes he’d already solved, but on the second day, Sherlock received an actual case and dragged Mycroft right along with him and John when they went to solve it.  
  
Lestrade had been confused at first, and even after Sherlock’s explanation had seemed to continue believing that Mycroft was the Mycroft Holmes who periodically demanded information about Sherlock. He hadn’t protested his presence at the crime scene, however.  
  
Jim tried to kiss Mycroft at the New Year’s Eve party, but was only able to get a peck on the cheek.  
  
It was the end of the first week of January when Mycroft’s other self finally made his move. Given how much time Mycroft was spending with Sherlock -- including several nights spent at his flat -- Mycroft was surprised it took even that long.  
  
Mycroft was riding to the scene of Sherlock’s most recent case when the cab he was in unexpectedly went off course. He quickly realized that he was being taken in the direction of a warehouse he was quite familiar with from his previous life. He could have said something or attempted to stop the cab, but he didn’t bother. Putting off the inevitable encounter with his other self would only make the man more paranoid and suspicious than he undoubtedly was already.  
  
He walked into the warehouse immediately upon arrival, without any prompting from anyone. There was a table with two chairs in the middle of the room; Mycroft chose the chair with a view of the door.  
  
His other self didn’t force him to wait long, striding into the room less than a minute later. He set a stack of files down on the table, then sat down across from Mycroft and smiled.  
  
Mycroft cringed mentally at how silly he looked with that smile on his face. He didn’t smile back.  
  
“I have to admit, you had me quite puzzled at first.”  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. “Only ‘at first’?”  
  
Other Mycroft raised an eyebrow right back at him. “Yes. I took the time to have you thoroughly investigated.” He spread the files over the table. “James Moriarty appears to be your only connection in the entire world prior to ten days ago. You’ve only ever been seen with him. You appear to have lived with him for several years.” He paused, apparently waiting for Mycroft to say something.  
  
Mycroft remained quiet. He wanted to see where this was leading.  
  
“He even bought the fine clothes you’re currently wearing, as well as your shoes and mobile phone. In fact, I think we can reasonably say that he purchased everything currently on your person...” A smug smile slowly covered Other Mycroft’s face. “...everything but for that watch of yours, of course. A very unusual piece, that.”  
  
Mycroft grimaced, knowing he’d been caught. “Oh?”  
  
“Yes. It doesn’t match any watch made by any manufacturer in the entire world,” Other Mycroft replied. “It does, however...” Other Mycroft opened one of the files, holding up a schematic that looked identical to the ‘watch’ on Mycroft’s arm. “...look very much like this device.”  
  
Mycroft looked the paper over for far longer than he strictly needed to. “I suppose it does,” he replied.  
  
Other Mycroft set the paper back in the file, then held out his hand. “You understand that I’ll need to be taking that from you, I hope.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you have done that earlier?” Mycroft asked. “I could easily use it to escape right now.”  
  
Other Mycroft held up his hands. “If you use it to go forward, I will simply have this place guarded until you appear again. If you use it to go backward, you will disappear off into another universe and cease to be my problem any longer.”  
  
“And if I do as you ask?”  
  
Other Mycroft pushed another file toward him. “Then you will have the privilege of being officially recognized as a member of our family under your new identity.”  
  
Mycroft opened the file to find various identity documents, including a birth certificate and ‘life history’ explaining the tragic circumstances of his separation from his family.  
  
“You will receive enough money each month to remain comfortable,” Other Mycroft added. “You will also have the opportunity to work for me, should that interest you.”  
  
Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of working for himself. At least he could be assured his boss wouldn’t be a complete idiot, for once in his career. He closed the file and tapped his fingers against the edge, considering his prospects.  
  
The universe he was in seemed stable. Jim and Sherlock were both alive and well. Keeping the device was always desirable, but not if he had to escape to another universe to do it. He couldn’t entirely bear the thought of suddenly abandoning either Jim or Sherlock without explanation at this point.  
  
He took the ‘watch’ off of his wrist and held it out to his other self.  
  
Other Mycroft took it and placed it in one of the inner pockets of his jacket. He gathered up all but the file he’d given Mycroft, resting a hand on top of the stack. He took a deep breath. “There’s just one more thing before I let you go...”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Other Mycroft swallowed. “Why?”  
  
Mycroft didn’t need to ask what he was referring to. “He died.”  
  
Other Mycroft pursed his lips, nodding like he’d already expected that answer. “How?”  
  
“Does it matter?” Mycroft replied. “It won’t happen now.”  
  
“I suppose not.” Other Mycroft frowned. “But I can’t help but wonder why you had to go back so far into the past. Was that simply the deal you made with James Moriarty? To make his counterpart’s childhood easier in exchange for the device?”  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft replied, having no desire to explain Jim’s relationship to Sherlock’s death. “However, after I made the change, there were unforeseen consequences forcing me to intervene in Sherlock’s early life as well.”  
  
“The smallest of actions can cause such large ripples,” Other Mycroft replied. He stood, gathering the stack of files in his arms. “I think we can be agreed that Sherlock is never to learn the truth of this?”  
  
“Naturally,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Other Mycroft walked over to the doorway. “You’re free to go,” he said. “Your driver will take you wherever you wish to go, but I would suggest you secure that file before going to Sherlock.” And with that, he made his exit.  
  
Mycroft waited a moment, then made his way back outside to the cab.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Mycroft headed back to the flat to drop off the file, reading over his manufactured history in the cab on the way over. It was thorough but boring, details laid out in a way that would satisfy all but the most intense scrutiny.  
  
Afterwards, he joined Sherlock at the crime scene. Sherlock promptly deduced from his shoes that he’d been in a warehouse with the other Mycroft and demanded details about what had happened.  
  
Mycroft declined to give them, to Sherlock’s irritation.  
  
He did tell Jim the whole thing later that evening, however.  
  
Over the next few days, Mycroft continued to go along with the schedule Sherlock and Jim had set up for him, but he ended up taking the job his other self had offered in the hope of preventing the two of them from completely monopolizing his time in the future.  
  
This only resulted in Sherlock tracking him down at his office on his first day of work.  
  
“Sherrinford?” Sherlock scoffed. “Your name is ‘Sherrinford’?”  
  
“That’s what it says on my birth certificate,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“That’s not an answer!” Sherlock replied. “And that birth certificate didn’t exist two weeks ago. I checked.”  
  
“There must have been some sort of oversight,” Mycroft said.  
  
“You mean, the same sort of oversight that would allow you to live with our uncle for eighteen years without anyone knowing about it?” Sherlock asked. “Including his staff?”  
  
“Our dear uncle knew about it,” Mycroft replied. “As did Mummy.”  
  
“Pity neither of them are around to confirm this,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “It’s quite fortunate that our uncle kept such thorough records.”  
  
“I’ll find out the truth,” Sherlock sputtered. “You and Mycroft can’t keep it from me forever.”  
  
“I really don’t know what you mean.”  
  
Sherlock made a loud, frustrated sound, then turned around and stormed out the door.  
  
For a short while, Mycroft wondered if he’d pushed Sherlock a bit too far, if he would once again be relegated to the position of the disliked brother Sherlock never visited. But he needn’t have worried. Sherlock was back the next day with more questions, determined to solve the mystery of his impossible brother.  
  
Sherlock’s interest didn’t wane in the slightest over the next few months. Whenever he was between cases, he spent the majority of his time pestering Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft took to asking for his assistance with various work-related matters that he was too lazy to attend to himself. He wasn’t terribly surprised when Sherlock refused, initially; Sherlock had always been reluctant to even take on the most interesting cases he’d provided for him. Most of what he was currently asking for help with wasn’t even all that interesting.  
  
However, when Sherlock learned that _Jim_ eagerly helped him with any number of his cases, his attitude changed completely. The two became fiercely competitive, each intent on being the one to solve the problem _first_.  
  
John adapted to Mycroft’s presence in Sherlock’s life fairly quickly once he had an official name to call him by. He accepted the story about baby ‘Sherrinford’ being sent to live with an uncle far more readily than Sherlock, and he often tried to dissuade Sherlock from further investigating the ‘conspiracy’.  
  
Mycroft didn’t spend much time around his other self. They worked in the same building, but their offices were on different floors. Other Mycroft typically sent one of his assistants to talk to Mycroft about work-related matters; they only spoke in person about things family-related. There was a sadness in his other self’s face that grew every time Mycroft mentioned Sherlock coming to visit him.  
  
Knowing exactly how his other self must feel, Mycroft tried to encourage Sherlock to at least talk to him when he came to the building. Sherlock nearly always refused.  
  
It was only when Sherlock became convinced, through a bit nudging from Mycroft, that Other Mycroft had spent their childhood protecting him from involvement in the family ‘conspiracy’ that Sherlock started showing hints of interest in Other Mycroft. It helped that Mycroft had been able to lead Sherlock to very real evidence that their mother had been ready to send Sherlock away at the tender age of seven after he’d revealed their father’s affair, a plan halted only by young Mycroft’s frantic intervention.  
  
Sherlock didn’t completely reverse his opinion about Other Mycroft, but he was notably less hostile to him from then on.  
  
Jim continued to take Mycroft on ‘dates’ several times a week. Mycroft went along without objection. He refused to call what they were doing ‘dating’ himself, but he didn’t bother to correct other people when they called it that. He also didn’t bother to correct Jim’s coworkers when they referred to him as Jim’s ‘boyfriend’; he didn’t feel like having to explain why he continually allowed Jim to hold his hand wherever they went, particularly now that he no longer had an explanation that he found truly satisfying himself.  
  
It was only when Jim went on a business trip to America for two weeks that he realized how much he’d come to enjoy the time they spent together, and how much he missed it when he couldn’t have it. He missed their dinners. He missed having Jim sit too close to him on the sofa when he read before bed. He missed Jim’s overly long hugs before they left for work each day.  
  
He even missed the increasingly more implausible excuses Jim came up with for interrupting his shower each morning.  
  
So, when Jim arrived home that morning at the end of his trip and hugged Mycroft harder than he had in all the years they’d known each other, Mycroft couldn’t help but return the hug with the same ferocity. He squeezed Jim against his chest, resting his cheek against the top of Jim’s head.  
  
They stayed that way for a few minutes before Jim pulled back, face slightly flushed. He grabbed hold of Mycroft’s collar, looking up at him with large, dark pupils. When Mycroft didn’t push him away, he pressed their lips together, a pleased sigh escaping from his mouth as he did so.  
  
Mycroft returned the kiss, running a hand over Jim’s cheek and twining his fingers in Jim’s hair. Jim moaned into his mouth, then set about turning the relatively chaste kiss into a lewd tangle of tongues.  
  
It was far sloppier than Mycroft’s usual taste, but the enthusiasm more than made up for the lack of subtlety.  
  
After a long moment, they separated, both breathing heavily.  
  
Jim wiped his reddened mouth. “Wow,” he said softly. He blinked a few times, then grinned at Mycroft. “I knew you would give in if I waited long enough.”  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat. “I have to get to work.”  
  
“What? No,” Jim groaned. “You can’t go to work _now_.”  
  
“If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late,” Mycroft said firmly. “And I do hate to be late.”  
  
Jim looked ready to protest for a moment, but he didn’t. He put a finger to his mouth, a mischievous smile covering his face. “All right,” he replied. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”  
  
It was obvious Jim was up to something. Mycroft couldn’t even begin to imagine what the flat would look like when he would return that evening, or what sort of strange seduction plan Jim would have undoubtedly come up with in the meantime.  
  
He found himself looking forward to it.


End file.
